


Profiling Lycanthropy

by a beta perspective (Ejunkiet)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, Fluff and Humor, For Science!, M/M, Research lab environments, Science Bros, Slow Burn, The Science AU, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Werewolves in labcoats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:24:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/a%20beta%20perspective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Der-bear. You're back late." Laura's laughing at him, her eyes gleaming as she gives him a squeeze, hands smoothing along his shoulders. "You reek of hormones and cheap aftershave." Her fingers slip into his collar, and she adds, almost as an afterthought, "and your shirt is on backwards. Fun night?"</i><br/> <br/>--<br/>A canon-divergence, where Stiles and Derek meet under <i>very</i> different circumstances. Also known as 'wolf dexter', or the Science AU. Written for the 2014 Sterek Big Bang, posted in five parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part one: wolf dexter

**Author's Note:**

> _“You’re researching lycanthropy?”_
> 
> _It’s phrased as a question, but at the same time it’s not, as Stiles has already guessed the answer. The widening of Derek’s eyes and the increase in the tension between them just confirms that he’s hit the mark. _Bingo.__
> 
> _“I think we should work together.”_
> 
> \--
> 
> This is going to be posted in five parts over the next few months, as I just moved overseas to start a new job. Life has been pretty hectic, to say the least. The rating is for later chapters!

It begins, as things too often did, with Derek in a compromising position: stark naked and bent uncomfortably over a table. He’s abandoned the blood pressure cuff to the opposite side of the bench, eyes glued to the watch that beeps insistently at his wrist as he counts down the seconds until moonrise. The syringe is prepped and ready to his left.

He hasn't bothered with gloves - not intending on leaving any traces of his samples or equipment once he's done - and he's in mild discomfort, at the point in the change just before his bones shift, his skin tingling with it. He's distracted by his irritation with the pitch frequency of his impromptu heart monitor, and his concerns about the step he's about to take, and he’s stupid, _so stupid_ \-- that he doesn't hear the footsteps in the corridor outside until the door is already half open and the intern slips into the room.

"And so this must be the- oh."

Derek places him only from the small mumbled words of self-encouragement he’s making, recognising the voice from the continuous string of babble that had travelled across the lab earlier that day. One of the new interns – although he’d not seen his face and had never been formally introduced, so when the kid finally looks up, stumbling to a stop when he realises he is not alone, he looks about the same amount of startled and confused as Derek is.

With the cold biting at his skin – at areas lower and more private than Derek would like - Derek can admit that it doesn’t look good.

The intern – who looks young, early twenties, if Derek is guessing right – is at a complete loss for words. He stands there stupidly, mouth gaping mutely as he struggles to figure out this situation, and his expression is so aghast that Derek would have laughed if this wasn't happening to him.

"Uh. I- uh."

The kid’s voice seems to break through the shock that had left Derek immobilised, and something snaps, sending a surge of energy through him, faster and further than before. Some aspect of the change must make itself evident, as Derek can feel the wolf in his features now, feel it in his claws and the lengthening of his teeth, and the intern startles, stumbling back a step, two, as his eyes go wide behind his glasses and his hands clench into fists.

_"Oh."_

He shoots a glance to the door, then Derek, then back to the door - and before Derek can so much as exhale, he's made a break for it, swinging through the door and pegging it down the hall as if the hounds of hell were behind him.

Shit.

\---

Since Derek was young, he had always been fascinated by the wolf. What makes it, and how it changes them - him - until they can barely be recognised as human anymore. When he had taken his first life science elective credit in animal behaviour that had turned out to be more about genetics than anything else (the interplay of genetic and environmental factors that determined the mechanics of evolution), Derek had become enamoured by it. If there was any other tool that could be used to more adequately characterise and understand their monthly little problem, he couldn't fathom it.

He'd taken more classes in the bioscience division, even going as far to change his major to Evolutionary Biology. It had become his passion, almost obsession - and it was the first time he'd felt really felt like he was _living_ for a long, long time.

Like most things in Derek's life, it hadn't lasted long.

His search for answers seemed inconsequential by the time he'd finished college and gotten through the shit-dump that had taken over his and Laura's lives the past few months. Their uncle, Peter, who for all sakes and purposes they'd believed was _gone,_ had broken free from his living-death, was up-and-moving - except something wasn't right. He wasn't healed - not really - and by the time they had heard the news, dropped everything and returned to their home town, he'd amassed a pile of deaths and bodies to his name, both human and wolf. He'd also awoken the sleeping lion, their old adversary - the Argents - and it had been a close thing -too close- that they had managed to leave the area unscathed and treaty intact.

Therefore when his teeth had _ripped out_ his uncle’s throat, and Laura and he had disposed of him once and for all, he'd had other things on his mind than genetic markers of lycanthropy, and his interest in a career as a research scientist - or, as Laura fondly referred to it, 'Wolf Dexter' - had fallen to the wayside. They had enough problems at that moment, and he had his _own_ personal demons to deal with when they learned the exact details of what _precisely_ Peter had been doing in Beacon Hills – that the prospect of another four-to-six years of grad school had seemed grotesquely self-indulgent, a position wasted on someone like him.

\---

Derek can't stop the change. The clatter of the guy's footsteps echo down the hall, frantic and panicked, but the pain has set in, and the wolf has his teeth in him, gnawing and tearing its way through to the surface. His teeth slot forward as his brow shifts, hair thickening - and he recognises the extent of the change too late when it doesn't stop there, the change punching through the length of his body.

His alpha form is a thing he regards with both respect and disgust. It reminds him of his mother, the elegant grace she had within it, and even Laura, with her longer, more human variant, before Peter had subverted it and poisoned it with patchy fur and skeletal limbs in a visual representation of the corruption of his mind.

Even without Peter's corruption, Derek knows that his own form is terrifying. It is also _highly conspicuous_ \- but there's a reason Derek chose the old wing to do this, and it's for the same reason that he still has a precious few moments to catch the Intern before he reaches the back exit hidden beneath the dust covers, and the security cameras in the parking lot.

Derek can't allow him to make it to that point - can't afford to.

He doesn’t have any time to think about what exactly he will do though, before the shift completes, and his wolf - hungry for the chase –takes him bounding down the corridor.

He tracks the other man easily by the stink of his sweat and fear and the sound of cheap sneakers skidding on the linoleum floors, and it doesn’t take Derek long to find him, scrambling through the final hallway to the door. He lets out a muted snarl, and with a long leap, he has passed him, standing up on his hind legs to crowd the exit.

"Holy shit, you're an alpha." The Intern stumbles to a halt, nearly toppling as the momentum carries him forward. His eyes skitter across Derek’s form with fascination- before settling on the door behind him. His hands go to his chest, patting down the pockets of his jacket, but they come up empty as Derek releases a low, threatening growl, palms open and out in plain sight. “And I am unarmed. Defenceless, really. Please don’t eat me.”

The Intern knows about wolf dynamics. But the Intern _isn’t_ a werewolf – Derek knows this, as he would have _smelt_ it - and the Intern is only just out of college, too young to have learned about this himself, to have followed Derek here by his initiative.

There were only a few explanations left. Either the Intern had grown up among wolves – _unlikely,_ as he didn’t even carry the scent of a passing omega – or the Intern was hunter-stock.

 _Of course_ they couldn’t just be left alone. Derek allows the growl within his chest to increase in volume, puffing out his fur to try to make himself seem as large as possible as he begins to pace in front of the doorway, never letting the Intern out of his sight. They hadn’t broken any laws, and to the best of his knowledge, the treaty with the Argent’s was still in place – they have no reason to corner him like this. It just be a coincidence that the Intern knows - he seemed well and truly surprised when he had… _interrupted_ Derek, and Derek can’t hear a signal from any hidden electronics that could advertise the set-up of an ambush or a trap.

But what if this is just a diversion, to distract him from the real attack? What if – what if _he_ isn’t the target, after all?

Is Laura safe?

He needs to know – needs to question the kid about what he knows, _why he is here_. He needs – to be calm. The Intern - and now Derek really wishes he’d bothered learning his name – hasn’t made any move to run, or any movement at all, really, aside from tracking Derek with his eyes, and his form isn’t doing much but intimidate when he could really do with the use of his words right now.

Derek stops his pacing and turns to face the intern, examining the pinched, tired face, hunched stature and steady hands, still held up in surrender. He stinks of cortisol, and anxiety, but he doesn’t appear to be much of a threat. As if sensing his judgement, the Intern breaks into a wide smile, nervously shifting his weight from foot-to-foot.

“Perfectly peaceful here, big guy. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He eases back into his own skin between one breath and another - the transition back to human has always been smoother - and reacquaints himself with human teeth, before he stares down the Intern and poses the first question.

“ _Who are you?_ ”

“Stilinski. You can call me Stiles.”

\----

The wolf shifts on his hind legs, claws clattering against the plastic flooring, as he gives Stiles a proper work over, before-

Holy shit, he's naked again.

_"Who are you?"_

His voice is lighter than Stiles would have thought it would be, rough at the edges, a living reminder of the fact that the wolf is still there, waiting, just below the surface. He's still in a crouch, barely covering himself and apparently not bothered by it - then again, why would he be, with a physique that put Michaelangelo's David to shame?

His mouth is suddenly very, _very_ dry, and he has to swallow a few times before he can speak.

"Stilinski. You can call me Stiles."

He is also, Stiles manages to note when he tears his eyes away from a chest that he would like cream off of – _young_ : only a few years older than him, if that. He's attractive, in a grizzled, ferociously hot, a few seconds from tearing off your face kind of way. The imminent threat is assisted by the deep rumbling growl that has been building continuously since Stiles was cornered between big and furry and his one and only exit.

Funnily enough though, it's the other guy that looks the worst out of the situation. Stiles has seen enough scared-shitless (Scott's rapid and unpredictable transformations into a werewolf had shaken up their little group more than a little) to be able to identify it a mile away - but the fact that _this_ guy is the one with his metaphorical hackles raised strikes Stiles as weird. Fangs, claws and _muscles_ have an obvious advantage over pale, stringy and sarcastic.

"Are you a hunter?"

He waits for a continuation, but that's it - _are you a hunter_. No context, no article, nothing. He doesn't know what to make of it, except that it seems to matter to this guy, and as he doesn't think he _is_ one, he gives a careful shake of his head.

The growl only gets louder, and before Stiles can wonder if that was the wrong answer, the other man barks out: "use your words. Say it out loud: do you or do you not hunt wolves."

It's not intoned as a question, but Stiles gets the picture, and as he is a mature adult, he will _not_ make a twilight comment. Nope, no-siree, not this able-bodied young adult in favour of keeping all of his limbs, thank you very much. He doesn't have much impulse control, but what he does have he uses, keeping his voice as calm and measured as possible.

"No." One of the other man’s hands flex, fingernails that strikingly resemble actual _claws_ glistening in the light, and Stiles gets the message, hurrying to elaborate. "I am definitely _not_ a hunter. That would make the whole 'friends with a werewolf' thing difficult."

The growl stops as suddenly as it and this whole mess started, and another step brings the other man dangerously close to invading his personal space with his _nakedness._ "You know another wolf?"

 _Shit_. Stiles and his big fat mouth.

He wants to say no, but something about the man opposite him and his earlier actions tells him that he can sniff out a lie. So that leaves him with omission and half-truths, as it would take actual, literal _hell_ for Stiles to bring Scott into this.

"They aren't local."

"‘They’ meaning more than one?"

If he believed that they had a pack, then _yes_ , _hell yes._ Stiles is skating on thin ice, but it’s not like he can do anything about that now. He has to make do with the cards he’s been dealt – he only wishes he was a better poker player.

"I'm not talking. They have nothing to do with you, and you won't be hearing any more about them."

The other man shoots him a look, the growl returning in a low rumbling thunder within his chest, but it stutters out as Stiles huffs out a laugh, determination taking the place of the confidence he doesn’t have. "Yeah, buddy, not going to happen."

Wolfman seems to accept that, to Stiles’ complete and utter relief, as he changes tact almost immediately.

“What are you doing here?”

Stiles stares at him, mouth falling open despite himself – but really, he’s flabbergasted by his audacity. Come _on_.

“Now that should be _obvious.”_

\---

The Intern’s heartbeat is fast but steady, confirming the truth of his words,but Derek is nothing if not aware of the nature of the lure, of innocent facades that hide darker purposes.

The possibility of more wolves, another _pack_ , is one that he and Laura will explore later. Right now, he needs to focus on containment, and he doesn’t bother to mask the accusation in his tone when he addresses him again. “What are you doing here?”

The intern expression twists, irritation flickering across his features as he shoots him an exasperated look, crossing his arms over the front of his chest.

“Now that should be _obvious.”_

Derek lets his eyes flash, but the kid continues before he can push him for more.

"What do you think? _Working_. I’m on a post-grad training scheme, volunteering my invaluable skills as a lab monkey to further research in our wonderful scientific community. I wiped down nearly every lab in the oncology department today.”

That’s… not what he expected. But it doesn’t explain everything. He eyes the loose, worn sweats that afford easy movement and the dark hoodie that makes him harder to spot in the dark, and it’s easy to see that this is an outfit worn for discretion and ease of movement.

It’s also approaching midnight, if Derek is judging the time right - the moon hanging fat and heavy above them, pulling at his limbs, and his wolf _wants_. Derek’s patience is running short, and he holds tightly onto his tenuous control.

“I’m only going to ask you once more.” Despite his efforts, the wolf pushes at his teeth, and the words slur around his fangs. For the first time in years, his control is slipping, the emotional turmoil riling the wolf, encouraging the change - and he needs this encounter to end, _now_. “ _What are you doing here?”_

“…would you believe me if I said I was lost?”

Derek’s grip on the wolf slips, and his lips lift in a snarl, the alpha flashing in his eyes as the full extent of the change becomes clear, and the boy leaps back with an obnoxious yelp. He raises his hands, waving them desperately as his voice escalates in pitch.

“Ok, ok! I was… carrying out some of my own research. Or, well, I was going to _try_. I was checking out a place to work that would be nice and quiet when I – well, stumbled across you in the room that looked just right for some private research. Clearly you were busy.”

He pauses at that, hands dropping back to his sides as his eyes narrow in thought. “On that subject, what exactly were _you_ doing in one of the old lab offices at eleven o’clock at night?”

He pauses, eyes narrowing as he glances back down the corridor thoughtfully, and Derek allows the change to proceed further, until his fangs are thick within his mouth, and words are difficult to make out.

“In your skivvies, with a blood-pressure cuff and a syringe, filled with- _hmm_.”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

“Uh huh. But what if I think it does?” Derek lets out another snarl, but the boy doesn’t flinch back, just holds his gaze steady, hands twitching where they are still raised in front of him. “You can’t kill me - I’m on the system. My supervisor is expecting me at nine AM sharp tomorrow. My _friends_ are waiting for my call at home, too, and they _will_ come and sniff you out if I go missing. There’s nothing you can do to me that won’t get you in a lot of shit as well.”

He juts out his jaw, his shoulders straight, standing with more confidence than he had twenty minutes ago.

“So.” He takes another deep breath, hands lowering in inches, until they rest back at his sides. “You might as well humour me.”

\---

"I don’t expect you to agree with me, I just want you to hear me out.”

The situation is tense, weird – it’s better than it was earlier, _by far_ , but something is wrong with his werewolf. He’s a little more rough around the edges, his breaths coming harsher and harsher, the features of the wolf more pronounced – and Stiles isn’t sure how far he can push it; if he events _wants_ to push it. He’s curious, sure, but not suicidal.

“Listen. You must work here, otherwise you wouldn’t have access to this place. I mean, you don’t seem to be a tech-savvy hacker, otherwise you wouldn’t have chased me and would have just mauled me in the parking lot."

Stiles traces his eyes over wolfman’s features, but he can't place him - and he would remember this guy if he had met him before, or, at least, he would remember those _eyes_ : clear and green under the harsh lines of his brows, and Jesus, Stiles would write _poetry_ about them if he could string a pretty sentence together, and wasn’t increasingly more scared for his life.

“You’re researching lycanthropy?”

It’s phrased as a question, but at the same time it’s not, as Stiles has already guessed the answer. The widening of Derek’s eyes and the increase in the tension between them just confirms that he’s hit the mark. _Bingo_.

“I think we should work together.”

He doesn’t expect a response, and he doesn’t get one, just that keen, steady stare. Stiles brain is working overtime, thinking through the implications, what this _means._ He’d majored in biology and volunteered at this institute for the opportunity to take his research to the _next level,_ to learn more about the condition that his best friend had been afflicted with _._

To think that he had just stumbled across someone with exact same goals, and an _alpha_ no less – that Deaton had only ever told them about in passing, in reference to why Stiles hadn’t been turned when Scott had bitten him his second full moon.

He can’t pass up this opportunity.

The silence continues for another few moments, broken only by the other man’s harsh breathing, and something about it is ringing warning bells, tightening the muscles within his stomach with tension. Stiles ignores it as best he can, focusing on keeping his breaths even and steady, maintain a level of easy calm as he bites the metaphorical silver bullet and sticks out a hand.

"I don't think we've met, yet. I'm Stiles, the intern. I have an undergrad master’s in biological sciences. That’s a thing. And you are?"

His hand hovers there, waiting expectantly, and the wolfman twitches, eyeing his hand as if it was a foreign object, and not the everyday polite custom that people use when making introductions, and Stiles can’t resist the urge to snark, can’t help himself. Jesus, it is a miracle he’s even still alive.

"This is the part where you say _your_ name. As otherwise I will refer to you as ‘wolfman’ – and you should believe me when I say that I _will_ use that in public."

It takes only a moment for every line of muscle in the wolfman to tense, tension closing the distance between him and the pissed alpha - furious and _dangerous._ Granted, he was still _naked_ , but Stiles was doing his best to not remind himself of that fact, keeping his eyes firmly above neck level, despite the tantalising flex of muscles along the edges of his sight.

Wolfman’s eyes are narrow, brilliant crimson flashing across them as he, yes, _growls_ : "You will _not_.

“We’ll both be working here for the not-so-significant future. You may as well give me your name.”

The growl kicks up in volume, and then wolfman is moving – one step, two, three, faster than Stiles can react, his hand reaching out to grasp at Stiles collar and throw him bodily to the side. Stiles’ back slams against the wall painfully, and he lets out a hiss as the sting of it makes his eyes water, before wolfman is there, human mostly, pressing him against the wall as Stiles fingers scramble uselessly against his chest. A few scarce inches separate their faces, and although they seem to be about the same height, Stiles feels as if he is smaller - and shrinking - under the intensity of his gaze.

“You’ll be better off if you just forgot about this. If you make any mention of this - to _anyone_ \- I’ll rip your throat out. With my teeth.”

Well that sounds just _peachy._

“I’m not going to say a word to anybody. Wolf friends, remember? But…” Wolfman growls a low sound that Stiles can feel within his bones, and he grits his teeth, pushing himself to follow this through to the end. “I still want a name.”

His gaze pierces him in that clear and steady gaze, pressing into his personal space, until Stiles can see nothing else. Wolfman inhales just under his jawline, nostrils flaring, before he passes the edge of his sight, and his breath is a hot gust against the vulnerable skin of his throat. Stiles freezes in place, his heart beating a staccato rhythm within his chest as he holds his breath, but he doesn’t back down, and after a moment, wolfman eases up on the pressure.

There’s a begrudging respect within his stare before he breaks contact completely. “Derek.”

His weight suddenly lifts entirely, leaving Stiles wobbling on his feet, his strength gone from his legs. He’s struggling to stay upright as Derek gives him another long, assessing glance, features pinched into a scowl.

“Go home. I don’t expect to see you here again.” He watches him for a long moment, before his lips twist up, revealing those long, elongated fangs, his tongue vivid crimson against a brilliant flash of teeth. “I will know if you do.”

He shoves away from the wall, leaving Stiles feeling abruptly cold in his absence, and stalks down the hall back towards the spare office.

Stiles spends more than a few minutes on the floor, getting his breathing and heart rate back under control.

He’s alive.

_Holy fuck._

His legs are still trembling when he finally makes his way to the door, struggling to extricate his keys from his pocket with shaking hands as he stumbles across the car park to the jeep, battered and familiar where he’d left it earlier. He locks the doors behind him and checks them twice, habitually scanning the darkness outside the car for the bright gleam of crimson as he counts his breaths and tries to bring himself back down into a state where he can drive.

His phone is against his ear before he can even register having taken it out of his pocket, and he’s still breathless when he gets put through to Scott’s answer phone.

“Scott. Call me as soon as you get this. Code red. I repeat, _code red_.”

\--

Stiles is gone long before Derek comes back to himself, his scent stale on the air and absent from the parking lot where the wind has blown it away. His claws have gouged trails along the walls, chunks carved from the door where the copper handle had been crushed beyond recognition into a misshapen bulb of twisted metal, scoured with the faint hallmarks of claws. The room is trashed, but the destruction is contained.

Derek is relieved beyond belief.

He doesn't remember much of the journey back to his and Laura's apartment. He's exhausted, from the long hours and what the change took out of him, but he pushes himself faster as he runs through the streets, his heart battering against his ribcage. Laura. He needs to know that she is safe, he needs -  
  
He rounds the final block, where the Camaro sits nearly parked outside of their apartment, and ascends the stairs without breaking his stride. His fingers tremble as he reaches forward with his copy of the keys, the streets of DC deserted at this time of night.  
  
The house is quiet and dark when he enters the code for their security system, and he inhales deep, detecting his sister's scent from the direction of her room, happy and comforting. The tension that he hadn't realised he'd been carrying drops from his shoulders, and he turns into the door frame, unable to continue to hold his own weight. His relief is a sharp, bittersweet happiness that takes his breath away, and he closes his eyes, leaning against the wooden entryway to the kitchen, and takes a moment to enjoy it.

An arm settles comfortably around his shoulders, startling him back into reality.  
  
"Der-bear. You're back late." She's laughing at him, her eyes gleaming as she gives him a squeeze, hands smoothing along his shoulders. "You reek of hormones and cheap aftershave." Her fingers slip into his collar, and she adds, almost as an afterthought, "and your shirt is on backwards. Fun night?"  
  
He coughs out a laugh, leaning back into the comforting weight of her at his back, her warmth a solid confirmation of the fact that they are really _ok_. "Not really."  
  
"Did something happen?"  
  
"Something."

"Can it wait until tomorrow, or do we need to deal with it now?"  
  
He gives a shake of his head. "It can wait."  
  
"Good." She breaks into a smile, sliding her grip down his harm until she grasps his hand, tugging at it to get him to follow. He can see traces of concern in her gaze, but she doesn’t push him, doesn’t ask – and he can’t put into words how much it means that she trusts him. They reach their rooms, and he doesn't think twice, following Laura to hers and her large king-sized bed, tugging off his shirt and jeans and shimmying under the covers.

When he's settled, Laura comes in beside him, curling up close although there is plenty of room for the both of them. Her nose buries into his shoulder, and he slips his arm around her back, holding her close. It has been a while since they’ve done this, and it’s not the same as it was when he was just a simple beta and they were pack, but it still feels like belonging, and it doesn't take Derek long to fall into a deep sleep.

\--

The fiscal year draws to a close, bringing with it the rush to complete the work he has been assigned before the new tax year, and Derek spends the next week with his head inches from his bench. He’s too busy and too tired to consider returning to the empty lab in the other building, and when the intern doesn’t show up the first day, or the day after, he thinks that maybe he’s dodged a bullet.

Of course it’s a week later, after the completion of his latest project, that Derek starts seeing the kid _everywhere_.


	2. Part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Stiles turns back to Derek, stepping up to take his place after he finishes drying his hands and steps up to the far culture hood. “I’ll have you know that I’m a perfectly legal adult. Twenty-three years, right here.”_
> 
> _Stiles doesn’t even need to turn around to see Derek roll his eyes – his tone says it all. “Right.”_
> 
> _Asshat._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in music, you should check out [monkey_pie's playlist](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3217145) for this story! I was also listening to [this playlist](http://8tracks.com/ejunkiet/forks-in-the-road) while I was writing this... the relevance of some of it will become clearer in the later chapters.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this next part~!

There had been a few days reprieve, during which Derek had tried to believe that this was _over_ , that he’d managed to impress on the Intern the importance of _staying the fuck away_ \- but then the day comes that the interns get their division assignations, and as luck would have it, _Stilinski_ walks into the Developmental and Stem Cell Biology division on an otherwise beautiful morning, a smirk on his lips and a spring in his step _._ The smirk only grows when the lab is called to order and introductions are made; a smug, amused thing as his eyes scan the crowd, settling on Derek, and while he doesn’t wave, he does send him an obnoxious wink over the heads of the crowd.

Hovering at the edge of the group, listening closely as the other two new interns are introduced, it is with an increasing sense of dread that Derek learns the interns will be here for a year on a rotation, cycling between projects and supervisors.

Twelve months of hell, if the look the kid sends him when he catches Derek's eye when he turns to leave is of any indication.

Stilinski is a loud-mouthed distraction, all laughter and clumsy flailing limbs. Nonetheless, he somehow manages to endear himself to the group, and by the end of his first week, he’s on a first name basis with the majority of the staff, who fondly refer to him as _‘Stiles’_. 

He’s like a persistent tic, aggravating and present just on the edge of his periphery, an parasite whose body has fallen off, leaving the gnawing, biting head beneath his skin.

In any case, Derek has worked hard to keep himself as scarce as possible, spending as many hours in the dusty store rooms of the older buildings as he can while he learns more about the kid’s posting without having to actually make contact. According to human resources, the kid will be working with Munns, which means Derek will be heading his next project with Antypovich. Ordinarily this news would be fantastic, as Antypovich has some real competence in the lab and knows best how to utilise him – but between finishing his last project and avoiding Stiles now that they are effectively _working together_ , Derek has lost pretty much any opportunity he had to make any headway on his own research.

As the first week morphs into the second, it quickly becomes apparent that the problem isn’t going to go away if Derek just ignores it. As Derek can’t just avoid him forever (without raising even more suspicion than he already had when Stiles had gone to the other lab’s RA sharing their space for help instead of Derek), he makes the necessary preparations for the confrontation, when it does eventually happen.

And he waits.

\---

Even though Stiles appears to have every intention to make good on his promise, it takes several weeks before he feels confident enough to make the approach. During that time, he takes to avoiding Derek's side of the lab entirely; even going as far to ask the other technician for assistance, which had led to Munns giving Derek the side-eye for the rest of the week.

Stiles finally approaches Derek during his lunch break the week after his project with Antypovich ends. It's a grey and miserable Monday morning, Derek's least favourite time of the week, especially when he's functioning on less than optimal sleep, and its the quick, rabbit like ' _pitter-patter_ ' of a heart beat that draws Derek's attention to the other side of the lab, where the intern is slowly making his way towards him. 

It's the way that he’s trying and failing to be subtle that Derek finds aggravating, rather than the fact that Stiles is approaching him in the first place. When he reaches the bench where Derek is working - amending the experimental protocol he was going to run through this afternoon - and Stiles just fidgets on his heels, it becomes too much, and Derek breaks away from his notes to fix him with a pointed stare.

Taking that as his cue, the intern offers him a wide, sheepish smile. “I'm Stiles. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

There’s a shuffle of papers, and from somewhere beneath the stack of papers and electronics he's carrying, he manages to free a hand, offering it up to Derek to shake.

Derek doesn't take it. “I'm busy.” 

There's a muted, guttural sound behind him of indignation behind him as Derek turns back to his work, pointedly ignoring the growing sounds of complaint. Smoothing a hand across the loose leaf of notes spread across his desk, Derek turns his attention to series of dilutions he’s going to need to make later in an effort to look busy, although it’s printed right there, nice and clearly in the protocol. "You should go." 

The intern doesn't -- and even worse, the nervous ticks increase - a pen clicks, before it becomes a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision as the intern flips it around his fingers - and Derek has had enough.

He lower his pen carefully onto the surface of the bench and turns bodily to face where Stiles is hovering awkwardly at his side. 

“I said I was busy. Go bother someone else.”

Stiles returns his stare, a brow elevated as he glances between Derek, his open lab notebook and the half-hearted calculations that scatter the page. “You can't be serious.” 

Another flare of annoyance has Derek turning his back on him again, and Stiles makes an aborted gesture to grab Derek’s arm as he reaches for his pen again. A glance encourages him to rethink the move and grab onto the edge of the bench instead, accidentally jostling a stack of pens and sending them spiraling across the desk. He lets out a low moan as they sprawl every which way, and he fails to try to catch the few that slide off the side and onto the floor. The end result is a mess worse than the one he'd made in the stock room last week - and that had involved several bottles of bleach and a container of filter tips. Derek doesn't need to look at him to see the flush that has flooded his cheeks, the scent of blood and embarrassment intensifying with vasodilation. Derek spares him a glance as he straightens his notes and prepares to relocate. “Shit, wait -- no, Derek, _please.”_

When Derek glances over, Stiles has an innocent look, hands clasped together pleadingly in front of him.

“You-- you do know that I'm working with you today, right?”

Stiles' heart beat hasn’t stuttered, so unless he'd mastered a level of control not previously demonstrated, Derek can tell that he at least believes what he is saying.

He doesn't have to like it though.

“I think there must have been a mistake.”

“Nope. No mistake. Says right here. Antypovich signed off and everything.”

He’s waving a slip of paper, and even though he’s still skeptical, Derek can recognise the snippets of elegant script on the paper as it flies by, and his name, right by his job title: ‘lab technician’. Stiles lips curl into a tentative smile as Derek takes the paper from his hand to give it a closer look, fidgeting with one of the pens he'd knocked off the desk.

“I’m with you for the tissue culture demonstration. Teach me Passaging, oh great alpha!”

Derek’s breath hisses between his teeth, as his eyes automatically shoot towards the few people that share the room with them. None of them are within hearing distance, but all are close enough that they’d be able to stop him if he turned to homicide, which was unfortunate. He lets his eyes flash as he turns back to the intern, who's lost his smile, his pulse rocketing up a notch as his eyes glance between Derek's and the tight grip of his hand that has wrapped around the collar of his plaid shirt.

“What part -” he has to force the words out between gritted teeth “- of ripping your _throat_ out, with my _teeth,_ was difficult for you to understand?”

“I understand that I may have made a mistake. I'm sorry. Please, don't kill me."

Derek is tempted, seriously tempted, to make good on at least part of the threat to emphasize his point, but he's limited by the location and their witnesses, and not stupid enough to fuck up and lose what he already has. The intern's apology is genuine, and he slowly loosens his grip, letting the aspects of the wolf recede back until he can pull away altogether. 

Turning back to his desk, he flips his note book shut with a tad more force than necessary. “I don't have time for this. As I've already told you, I’m busy.”

He turns and strides towards the other side of the lab, grabbing a clean coat from the hook. There’s a sound of indignation behind him – not too close behind him, thank god, so this might just work. Derek continues forward, twisting around the benches, lengthening his stride as Stiles struggles to keep up with him.

“Hey, I apologized! Come on now, you don't have to make this any harder than it is- wait, where are you going? I can’t follow you in there- Derek!”

Derek punches in his key and slips through, even as Stiles scrambles to make up the distance between them. It’s with grim satisfaction that Derek registers the door lock clicking into place just as Stiles reaches the door. There’s a flurry of knocks on the glass, before Stiles finally hisses a curse, his shoulders dropping as he finally gives up on the door and makes his way back down the corridor.

Derek lets his head rest against the tinted glass, breathing out a long, slow sigh of relief. 

"Ahem." 

Derek startles at the sound, apprehension winding tension back into his shoulders as he turns to meet the skeptical gaze of his lab manager, a single brow raised from where he's set up on the other side of the small imaging lab - the only one that’s easily accessible within their division. 

"Do I even want to ask?" 

Derek manages a strained smile, rolling his shoulders in a casual shrug, his breath caught between his teeth as he waits to see what Munns makes of his antics. Stiles _is_ his intern, after all. "Probably not."

Luckily, Munns doesn’t seem to care much one way or another, as he turns back to his screen with a shrug, not sparing Derek another glance. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief, the tightness within his chest loosening with every passing moment. He may have actually gotten away with it - except...

Now that he’s here, he’s struck by the reality that he doesn’t actually have anything to _do_.

After a moment of almost-comfortable silence, Munns lets out a small sigh and glances back up from his screen, catching Derek’s eye before gesturing at a collection of culture dishes to the left of him.

“If you’re not _too_ busy, would you care to image these in triplicate for me? Medium magnification, both GFP and DAPI frequencies, so the intern can do cell counts later. Cheers.”

Derek nods, heading across the room to set up the other microscope, setting it up and booting the imaging software with practised ease. It's not the most exciting of jobs, and he will have to get back to his own projects later this afternoon, but he can spare a half hour or so helping out here. Munns slides over the dishes without another word, and they spend the rest of the afternoon in silence.

\--

“You know, I did apologize for the whole 'alpha' thing. Your behaviour is completely unreasonable.”

Aside from the occasional glimpse, Derek has managed to largely avoid Stiles, or being in the same room alone with Stiles – even the _bathroom –_ during the past two weeks, despite the fact they work adjacent to each other. Now: either Derek is _that good_ , or Stiles is losing his touch. Either way, this situation is not acceptable.

Stiles has spent the better part of the last week planning his next attempt at contact, working on fighting past his own apprehension at staging a confrontation with Derek - as this thing is bigger than him and his own stupid nerves. He needs this, he needs this opportunity, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let a real life Alpha slip through his fingertips.

Stiles just needs to convince Derek that he needs Stiles as much as Stiles needs Derek.

Derek, who is at this moment pointedly keeping his back to Stiles and ignoring his presence, as if he doesn’t exist. And it's happened enough, that Stiles can't help the frustration that makes him blurt, "you could at least acknowledge that in standing here."

Derek pauses, glancing at him over his shoulder with narrowed eyes, considering. 

“What do you want.”

Stiles is so surprised by the response - and actual response - that it takes him a moment to remember why he's even here. 

“Antypovich and Munns had a talk, apparently, and changed some things around. I’ve been assigned to you.”

If Stiles listens carefully, he thinks he can hear the sound of a pen snapping.

“Really.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’m sorry for the extra work load?” He means it, at least, but Derek is taking the news about as well as he'd expected - the face Derek pulls makes it seem as if he shoved a lemon down his throat instead.

“Don’t mention it.” The words are said without inflection, as hard and unforgiving as the frown on Derek's face, and really, he's acting as if Stiles had handed him a death sentence. 

"Wait." He tries for an apologetic smile as he puts a hand out, pausing again just before he reaches Derek’s shoulder, remembering the last time he'd tried to touch him. He gets his desired result though, as Derek sees the movement and stops, turning to face him.

“Thank you.” Stiles tries for his best, patented smile. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. We’ll be working together, and I’ll be here for a while, so why don’t we…”

The murder he can see in Derek’s gaze causes the rest of his sentence to wither and die within his throat, and he swallows thickly.

“Or we can make this as painfully awkward as possible. Good plan.”

Derek watches him, eyes narrowed and considering, before turning on his heel once again, and you know what? At least Stiles tried.

\--

“Come on, kid.”

Stiles blinks and glances up from the page of notes he'd been reviewing as they'd walked down the corridor towards the tissue culture rooms, unsure of what just happened. His feet move automatically as Derek leads them down a series of narrow corridors, and it’s therefore several minutes later before the words click into place in Stiles’ mind.

 _Kid._ He narrows his eyes at Derek’s back, resisting the urge to kick him.

“I am _not_ a kid.”

He catches a glimpse of a small smirk as Derke turns a corner, picking up the pace as the foot traffic thins out, but Stiles is too busy to comment on it, scrambling to keep up with his ridiculous pace before the bastard locks the door and _shuts him out again_.

It’s still on his mind, though, several sharp corners and another keypad access-only door later – Stiles _needs_ to get a hold of his own key card – and he opens his mouth to say as much when Derek makes him stop with an outstretched hand. Stiles blinks at where they are – the stock room, one place he’s _way_ too familiar with - and watches as Derek scans the lined shelves of the room, pausing at the rack of standard issue white coats.

“Have you been issued your own coat yet?”

“Uh – well, I brought my own?”

Derek snorts, grabbing one from the second hook and shoving it roughly at Stiles before he grabs another, slipping his arms into the material. “Yeah, that’s not going to work. Talk to Munns, you’ll need a new one. Antypovich won’t mind if you borrow hers for this.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at the sleeves which barely reach the edges of his own. Sure, _she_ won’t mind.

He holds his tongue, following Derek from the narrow room down the hall to the third door down, glancing over the compact layout as Derek keys in the code and heads to the sink. They’d managed to fit _three_ tissue culture hoods in here, as well as a microscope and a fully-stocked lab bench. Impressive.

He turns back to Derek, stepping up to take his place after he finishes drying his hands and steps up to the far culture hood. “I’ll have you know that I’m a perfectly legal adult. Twenty-three years, right here.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t even need to turn around to see Derek roll his eyes – his tone says it all. “Right.”  
  
Asshat.

\--

By the end of the week, Derek has exhausted the last of his patience, and he’s regretting the day he agreed to work for this company. He wasn’t a teacher – he isn’t paid enough for this, and surely mentoring Stiles falls under the category of cruel and unusual punishment.

Stiles is a hurricane of barely contained energy: irritating, laissez-faire with the equipment, the perfect recipe of a disaster just waiting to happen.

Derek doesn’t see how they are going to manage working together for the rest of the month, let alone complete this project together.

The only good thing is that the kid is smart enough not to mention the night they first met. He wasn't a complete dimwit, then.

Laura is running late, which would have been unsurprising, even if she hadn’t shot off a quick text of ‘lte shft’ earlier. Regardless, if Derek wanted to check on her, he knew where to find her – holed up in the basement archives of the Library of Congress, restoring the old manuscripts and texts housed there.

Laura loves her job, loves being able to preserve a little part of history within the books she attends to, carefully and methodically, reclaiming as much of the original printing as she can. It was a fascination that had been brought about by their mother, and the collection of relics that they’d kept within the family vault; and unlike Derek, she had been able to fully explore her interests before… before life got more complicated.

Whenever she has the opportunity, she would stay back, taking the late shifts, and whilst Derek dislikes the emptiness of the house when she works late, he can’t blame her for her habits.

Even though he expects it, he still isn’t quite prepared for the confrontation when she situates herself before him, arms folded decisively across her chest, her expression serious.

“Derek. What is going on here? What are you keeping from me?”

He opens his mouth to try and salvage this, to somehow stall the inevitable - but she raises a hand, interrupting him before he’s had the chance to take in a breath.

“Don’t even try it. You’re not yourself; you haven’t been yourself in weeks. Tell me, Derek.”

_I can’t help you if you don’t._

She bites back the words, but Derek can guess at what she’s thinking, even if it goes unsaid. Ever since – ever since he’d become an alpha, they’d had this unspoken agreement between them – communication.

He – should have told her about this initially, shouldn’t have kept this from her this long. He’d hoped – beyond _hope_ – that this thing with Stiles would just blow over, but Derek rarely got what he wanted.

She seems to sense his decision, leaning in closer as her eyes pierce his with increasing intensity. “ _Derek_.”

It takes a little over an hour for Derek to brief her on the details. A new pack – although not in the area – is still a threat, and really, she has every right to every flicker of anger he can sense from her. She’s quiet when he finishes, her gaze never wavering from his, waiting patiently until she’s sure he is done.

“This is what was biting you a couple of weeks ago, then?”

He nods, keeping his eyes trained on the floor, before there’s a soft touch against his cheek, her thumb soft as she rubs along his cheekbone, and he leans into the movement. It’s with a small sigh a minute later that Laura’s touch drops to his jaw, guiding his face up until their eyes meet.

“I was waiting for you to tell me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you, and I’ve – handled it.”

She punches him in the side at that, and although her nails are curved inwards, the power behind it still smarts; but her tone is affectionate when she presses closer to him, until she’s leaning against his shoulder, nose buried in his jacket.

“Stupid little brother. It’s my job to look out for you, okay?”

\--

Derek never expected it to be easy. He knew that, but he also wishes that he didn’t have to deal with this (the constant reminder of his mistake, a threat that talks a mile a minute and sticks to him in the lab like a persistent burr) and for a while, it’s just as bad as Derek had expected. They barely communicate in more than barked instructions and sharp rebukes, and Derek is lectured more than once about proper mentor-mentee relationships.

But after a while, it gets better.

His almost pathological need to snark, when it’s not directed at him, can actually be quite funny, and there’s something comfortable about their constant bickering, in the way Stiles eyes twinkle when he teases Derek _._ During the next few weeks, when Derek finds that he’s actually _enjoying_ the company, it’s honestly surprising.

By the end of the project, things have gone well. At the end of the month, Stiles is reassigned to Munns, returning Derek to his routine, maintaining the stocks and assisting with the other students. It’s easy – too easy, after weeks of _actual_ research, and the monotony of the work frustrates him. To stave off the frustration, he starts planning his work for the next full moon, but it’s not the same, and for the first time in years, he gets caught up in the past, and how it seems almost like another life.

If he’d stayed in New York, he could be writing an application for the grant money to start his own lab right now.

 _If_. It’s too easy to dwell on the past and missed opportunities, and Derek had promised himself that he wouldn’t.

“Derek. _Derek.”_

A hand waves in front of his face, causing him to jolt back from where he’d been curled over his desk, laptop screen idling in the backdrop. Stiles gives him a sheepish grin, wiggling his fingers in a half-assed wave as he sits on Derek’s desk, right on top of some paperwork.

“Yo. I thought we’d lost you for a moment.”

Until he did something unpredictable, like _this._ Derek narrows his eyes at him in a glare that sends him wincing back, crinkling the papers beneath his ass, and – “god damn it Stiles, if you don’t get your ass off my desk, you’re going to lose something.

He makes a vague expression of horror, jumping to his feet in a move that sends _Derek_ into a wince, and claps his hands together in apology. “Peace! I come in peace! In fact, I bring you coffee.”

He gestures back over to _his_ desk, that he’d somehow manage to get relocated to Derek’s otherwise empty office – _space restrictions_ , Munns had said, although he’d not looked even a little apologetic when he’d moved Stiles from his own office and into Derek’s – until Derek can see the cardboard holder filled with coffee, balanced precariously on top of Stiles’ own laptop.

“It’s exactly how you like it: as black as your soul.”

He winks, dropping the container on his desk, and Derek can smell the sugar from here. He reaches for it, peeling away the top and inhaling deeply.

“Enjoy it. I’ve got to catch up with Munns, or he’ll make me clean the benches again.”

\--

Surprisingly, the next few weeks go relatively well.

When tension seeps back into their relationship, disrupting the ease in which their interactions had been going on for the past couple weeks – and when did _that_ happen? –it takes Stiles an afternoon of work alone, angrily sorting through old lab books, to realise the cause. In fact, it takes a text message from Scott with an update on his lunar preparations, for Stiles to finally guess the date and look up the lunar calendar on his phone.

It’s nearly the full moon, the second since Stiles started working here (not including that first night when Stiles first met Derek). Stiles texts back, asking Scott to call in the evening, and they talk about it, talk about what Stiles should do.

For Scott’s sake, Stiles needs to start moving forward on Plan ‘Get The Alpha To Help Scott’. He can’t push Derek though, for risk of breaking the fragile truce they’ve managed to form between them.

Scott’s been keeping him updated with the status of his change, and the frequency of his bouts of lost control. Now that Allison’s at grad school, the impulses brought about by the lunar cycle have gotten worse, and Scott has been considering using the tried and true shackle-to-the-radiator method of containment.

So Stiles waits it out, and doesn’t comment when Derek starts disappearing in the evenings again, just carefully observes from the corner of his eye, maintaining a respectful distance.

Stiles doesn’t have to check his calendar to recognise the day when Derek arrives late in one morning, bags under his eyes, looking exhausted but happy. There’s a smile on the edge of his lips as he greets the members of the lab, and Stiles can’t help smiling back when Derek claps him on the shoulder.

“Good night?”

Derek gives him a flat look, and whilst Stiles can see a hint of his usual wariness there, apparently Derek’s good mood wins out, as he actually bothers with a response. “You could say that. It was productive, at least.”

He doesn’t push, instead giving Derek a winning smile. “Good. D’you fancy a coffee? I’m making a run to the good place of campus.

“Is that an open offer?”

Stiles glances back at a dark head of hair, smiling as Munns makes hopeful eyes at him from around the door.

“Sure. The usual?” He’s flashed a grateful smile as Munns inclines his head in a nod, before Stiles gets to his feet grabbing his jacket. “I’ll be back in ten.”

He takes fifteen, but nobody cares when the freshly brewed coffee is distributed to eagerly awaiting hands. Derek’s is a cappuccino, which Stiles has noticed he likes to order from the coffee shop on the main campus, and Stiles has the feeling that he’d visit a lot more frequently if his budget could handle it. He’s seen the way Derek wrinkles his nose at the stuff they brew at work, and to be frank, Stiles isn’t fond of it either – he drinks is because it’s there, and because if he didn’t, he’s likely to collapse in a self-induced caffeine withdrawal.

He makes a note to mention the quality of the lab’s coffee supply to his supervisor. Maybe they can add it to next year’s budget, or something.

Regardless - there’s a hint of a smile there when Stiles hands Derek the Styrofoam cup, and Stiles is going to count that as a win.

\--

When the moon begins to wane, Munns assigns Stiles to Derek for another project. Stiles could kiss him, if he wasn’t afraid of losing his position and being sued for sexual harassment, so he settles on just bringing him his coffee in the mornings, just the way he likes it.

If Derek notices anything, he doesn’t mention it, but that could also be due to the freshly brewed cups of coffee that keep finding their way onto his desk by the end of his lunch break, scrawled cartoon faces winking from the lids.

**\--**

The next full moon is coming, the Hunter’s moon - Derek’s least favourite moon, if not for the name, than the time of year - and it seems to effect Stiles much the same way it effects Derek, filling him with expectant, nervous energy as he watches the sky settle into night earlier and earlier each day. Stiles hasn’t mentioned it though, or made any move towards encroaching on the time Derek spends in the refurbished lab - and although Derek is smart enough to limit the time he spends there still, Derek can tell he’s still burning with questions.

It’s not long before some of that curiousity breaks through whatever self-restraint Stiles has been exercising, and Derek resigns himself to the inevitable.

“So. The Hunter moon.”

Derek pointedly ignores him, shuffling through his notes on protocol and handing Stiles a sheath of papers for his own perusal, but Stiles doesn’t seem to notice, distractedly tapping against the desk with his pen.

“Does the _type_ of moon change anything?” He doesn’t wait for Derek to respond –although he won’t - just continues, gnawing on his pen lid thoughtfully. “Like, does the Wolf Moon make you extra wolfy, or something? I wonder… Scott always did seem extra cranky in January, but I always assumed it was due to him freezing his butt off in the forest, and not-”

“ _Stiles.”_

He glances up, startled, to see the handful of papers that Derek has thrust under his nose.

“So, that topic’s a no-go. Gotcha.”

Derek doesn't dignify that with a response. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

**\--**

The day before the Hunter moon, Derek ends up snapping at Stiles and walking out of the lab in the early afternoon, a good four hours before he had planned to leave.

He’s exhausted, from a combination of pre-moon tension, and the apparently boundless depths of Stiles curiosity, and he cites stomach complaints, taking his first sick day since he’d been hired at this institute five years ago.

When Derek walks in through the door to his flat though, he’s surprised to find Laura in the living room halfway through a marathon of ‘Sex in the City’, curled up on their sofa in worn yoga pants, cradling a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. She’s as surprised to see him as he is to see her, but doesn’t question it; just slips off to the kitchen to rattle through a couple drawers, coming back in with an extra spoon that he accepts with a grateful smile.

“What would I do without you?”

“Buy your own damn ice cream.” She grabs his arm, tugging him onto the sofa with her, until their legs are tangled together and she can settle her head against his shoulder with a sigh. “I’m glad you’re here. Are you going to tell me what happened?”

He lets out a shuddering sigh, wriggling his shoulders to loosen the tension he can feel settling between his shoulder blades. “It’s nothing. How was work?”

Her brow rises even further, before she raises a hand to smother her smile.

“It was good. You know, it passes the time. My boss is going on maternity leave soon, and she’s turning a new leaf in employee management. She practically forced me out of the office for the rest of this week. Apparently, I don’t use enough of my leave days. Or, any, really.”

She lets out a laugh, leaning more firmly against him, spoon swinging idly from her fingers, before she shoves the tub more firmly towards him. “Enough about me though. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Ah. So, how is Stiles?”

Derek gives her an aggrieved expression, and she bursts out with a laugh. “That good, huh?”

‘We’re not discussing Stiles _._ ”

“I don’t see why you just don’t let him watch. It’s not an issue.” He meets her gaze, startled. Laura smirks back, a brow raised in challenge. “Is it?”

Derek blinks, momentarily lost for words.

“I guess it’s not.”

She smiles, large and wolfish as she slings an arm around his shoulder. “That’s it. Now come watch a film with me. I’ve had about enough of Carrie’s relationship drama for today. We’re watching the entirety of the Hobbit, by the way. I’ve been waiting for the release of the extended edition box set _all_ year.”

\--

Derek is watching over his shoulder, expression stony, eyebrows harsh lines of condemnation as Stiles tries not to fuck up the measurements for his latest batch of samples for sequencing. He swears he can feel the waves of disapproval bearing down on his back, and finally, frustrated, he slams his pipette down on the bench, ignoring Derek’s noise of disbelief as he rounds on the asshole, hissing the words between his teeth.

“What do you _want?_ ”

Derek stands maybe a foot, foot and a half away, eyes narrowed at Stiles, seemingly contemplating something, before he takes a step forward. Stepping up to the desk, he reaches past Stiles to pick up his abandoned pipette, gingerly replacing it onto its stand. Then, and only then, does he give Stiles a response.

“Before you started destroying company property, I was going to ask if you have any plans for tonight.”

Stiles blinks. What?

“There’s something I need your help with, in the old labs. Stock check.”

“Oh.” _Oh._ “Holy shit.”

“Meet me outside the refurb wing at eight. If you’re late, I won’t be waiting for you.”

He gets up to leave, but doesn’t make it past the end of the bench, waiting until he’s caught Stiles eye before he gestures at the surface of the bench. “And if I catch you throwing around lab equipment again, I _will_ rip your throat out.”

**\---**

Stiles spends nearly the entire afternoon on his laptop, jittery with excitement and practically buzzing in his seat as he speeds his way through the literature. Anatomy, physiology, patterns in social behaviour that could correspond to the lunar calendar; hell, he even delves into mythology, – anything and everything that Derek could possibly be using to inform his research, he reads, copying relevant titles into a word document (labelled, inconspicuously, RILF 2014: researchers I’d like to f– well, you get the idea).

By the end of the day, he’s broken down what he thinks he’ll need into three different subfolders: background, relevant and fringe. He almost wishes that Derek had given him more time to prepare, but if he’s honest, he’s been reading up on this material for _months_ , just waiting for his opportunity to try talking Derek into letting him help.

There are a couple close calls when his PI drops by to visit him, asking him if he needs any assistance on the report he’s _supposed_ to be writing (he’ll get on that later, really), but he’s done enough work and smart enough to field the questions with relative ease, managing to successfully derail the conversation a short time later with a casual mention of Antypovitch and her new haircut – and it’s worth it to see Munns’ ears flush a bright red, hear him stammer as he makes his excuses to leave.

By the time most of the other members of the lab have headed home or locked themselves within their offices, Stiles feels as if he’s ready.

Finally _._


	3. part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It was the only thing I could think of that could stop you without causing permanent damage.”_
> 
> _Derek nods, not trusting himself to speak. It’s too close to the moon, and with the wolf prowling at the edges of his senses, the urge to_ snap _could have him making the change before they’re ready -- but he feels more confident, knowing that Stiles has a way to stop him, something that will give him enough time to use the padlock on the door._

There’s less than an hour until moonrise, and Derek can’t stop pacing around the small square of space within the refurb lab. It doesn’t bode well that he’s this anxious, the wolf inside of him prickling at his skin, agitated by the increased amount of adrenaline in his system. He can’t help but feel-

He can’t help but feel as if he’s making a huge mistake.

Derek has gone over his decision to let Stiles watch the change more than a dozen times since they’d last spoken earlier this evening – fretting, as Laura would put it, which would be inaccurate as Derek doesn’t fret, he _broods_ –and what had seemed to be a good decision at the time has lost its appeal. There are too many uncontrolled variables, too much that can go wrong -- and he’s not even as concerned about the chance he’s putting Stiles into danger (although that is a real and present issue) as he is concerned about the risk he’s taking.

If something happens, Stiles could not only be hurt, but he could be turned. Derek has never given into his instincts to form a pack, but if his control slips, just for one second, under the influence of the moon…

He could instigate a pack war.

He’s pretty much convinced himself to call it off when Stiles finally arrives, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, almost over-eager as he makes his way into the room. He’s carrying a weighty backpack that contains not only his laptop – which Derek promptly takes from his, as _“you’re not going to need that, Stiles.”_ – but a heavy metal padlock and a set of police grade handcuffs, which Stiles carefully place to the side. He’s also carrying a can of pepper spray in his back pocket, which he reveals to Derek as soon as he’s emptied out his backpack, his expression apologetic.

“It was the only thing I could think of that could stop you without causing permanent damage.”

Derek nods, not trusting himself to speak. It’s too close to the moon, and with the wolf prowling at the edges of his senses, the urge to _snap_ could have him making the change before they're ready -- but he feels more confident, knowing that Stiles has a way to stop him, something that will give him enough time to use the padlock on the door.

It eases some of the stress that’s been building up within him that Stiles has thought this through.

Alright. They’re doing this.

He gestures to the bench he’s cleared against the opposing wall, and they walk over there together, shuffling through the supplies Derek had been quietly removing from the stock room for the last month; a little here, a little there, to spread the damage as much as possible. The rest of the preparations don’t take long, and in short order, Derek finds himself awkwardly crouched in the middle of the room, stripped down to nothing but an old pair of boxers.

He takes a breath and closes his eyes, ignoring the weight of the Stiles’ eyes on him as he feels out the aspects of the change, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears, a frantic rhythm that he thinks even Stiles could hear it from where he’s hovering next to the door, his grip tight around the can of mace.

This is his last chance to back out of this, call the whole thing off. It wouldn’t be easy, but he’d be able to do it - drive to the national park an hour away from here and release himself amongst the tree, following the trail of scent from the deer carcass he’d dragged through the woods earlier, just in case.

Derek doesn’t leave.

\--

Stiles eyes are wide by the time he’s finished the shift, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if he’s aching to reach out and touch. Thankfully, he seems able to restrain himself, as Derek doesn’t know what he’d do if Stiles had made the move to grab him. The wolf could be unpredictable on a good day, when it was carefully buried beneath layers of human instinct and sensibilities; this close to the surface, it was more dangerous, more inclined to slip the constraints of Derek’s control.

“Does it hurt?”

Derek shakes his head, before gesturing with a clawed hand at the table. They needed to move quickly if they wanted to make the most of the moon, and Stiles nods, a smile playing on his lips as he collects the equipment and starts runnig through the list. He seems to get it, and doesn’t ask any stupid questions, and after a while, the tension in the room dissipates, and Derek feels himself begin to relax.

When Derek bares his teeth, Stiles doesn’t shy away, that same smile playing across his lips as he runs the Q-tip alongside the inside of both cheeks, rubbing vigorously. It tickles, causing Derek to snort – his hands were too unwieldy in alpha form to keep a proper grip on the stick – and Stiles raises a hand to his muzzle to balance himself before he seeming to remember himself, shooting Derek an apologetic glance.

“Sorry dude.”

It’s a non-issue, and Derek huffs out a breath, pushing his nose forward into his palms until he gets it, that it’s ok, that Derek _wants_ him to. Derek closes his eyes as he runs delicate fingers along his snout, inhaling deeply against his wrist, taking in his scent, an instinct he’s been fighting for the past month.

Derek is not embarrassed by this form: it’s as natural to him as his human skin, a physical manifestation of his internal instincts. In contrast to what Derek is investigating – or maybe _because_ of it – Derek believes there are actually very few differences between this form and how he normally is, the wolf ever present beneath his skin. It’s an extension of himself, like how the alpha power had settled within in as just another extension of his beta form, the changes unlocking some of his deeper instincts and unearthing some of the wants and desires he had not known he had, but leaving him largely unchanged.

It was maybe the only good thing to come out of the mess a couple of years ago, and even under the circumstances, he feels grateful to Peter for it.

He opens his eyes again when Stiles’ hands reach his ruff, his eyes distant as he buries his fingers in the thick fur there, curling absently around the strands.

“You look – different from what I imagined. From what Scott had described, the alpha form… it was more Lupin, than Teen Wolf.” His voice is faint, and Derek nudges his shoulder with his muzzle, as a gentle but insistent reminder of why they’re here. “Right. We have a job to do.”

Derek takes a step back as Stiles removes his hands from his fur, watching as he walks over to the table and picks up the grooming shears. He twists them around in his hands, hefting them as he gets a feel for their weight, before he turns back to Derek with a small smile.

“Are you ready?”

They move quickly through the checklist of procedures Derek had outlined earlier that day; mostly routine things; temperature readings hair, blood and nail clippings, things that Derek hadn’t had the capacity to collect from himself whilst in this form. Stiles’ hands shake minutely as he makes the incision for a sample of tissue from the muscle of Derek’s inner thigh – “are you _sure_ you don’t want any of the local anesthetic? As I brought it, even though you said it wouldn’t have any- okay, now you’re growling. I get it, fine. Can’t say I didn’t try.” – but he’s careful with everything he touches, cleaning and replacing every piece of equipment until they’ve reached the bottom of the list.

Derek makes the journey back to human shape slowly, relearning the feeling of possessing fewer teeth, fewer legs, blunt fingernails and opposable thumbs. It’s easier with Stiles there, a constant reminder of his humanity, of how the world sees him, and it doesn’t take long before he’s resting on the floor, stark naked, his chest aching as he tries to catch his breath.

Stiles doesn’t make a snarky comment, or say anything, really; just hands him a towel, his bottom lip between his teeth as he takes stock of what they’ve collected.

“Do you have any questions?”

Stiles blinks and glances back at him, taking a moment as his eyes quickly scour the length of Derek’s half naked form before his lips twist into a smirk. He gestures towards the corner where he’d folded up Derek’s clothes, leaning back against the bench. “Just a few.”

A few turns out to be twelve, but they’re well-thought out, and more than one makes Derek pauses, taking a a moment to think before giving him an answer. They’re largely technical; about the onset of lycanthropic characteristics, the shift in pain threshold and the ache that lingers for hours after the shift as his cells recover from their rapid replenishment and replacement of tissue. After a while, the discussion turns more personal, as Stiles asks Derek questions about his family history. He answers honestly, ignoring the familiar ache within his chest as he recalls his mother’s shift, their first run together in the woods behind the house when he was eight.

Stiles takes all this in with a calm focus, not pushing for answers when Derek dodges a particularly painful question, which Derek appreciates more than he can say.

“I’ve been under the impression that the bite was an infection, a virus. I didn’t know the traits could be inherited.”

“It tends to be, but there are always exceptions. My cousins were born human, and from the stories I’ve heard, I suspect they were also immune.”

“Immune?” Something changes in Stiles tone as his eyes become sharper, boring into Derek’s. “Does that mean there could be a cure?”

Derek bites back his instant rebuttal – that the bite is a _gift_ – as he can sense that this is at least part of reason Stiles has kept at him for all these months. He’s been a puzzle, difficult to read, and honestly, Derek wouldn’t pass up the chance to finally get an idea of what he’s _doing_ here.

He takes a moment to consider his question seriously, eyes fixed on the spread of medical instruments laid out neatly to be put away. He’d be stupid not to admit that sometimes the bite _isn’t_ the answer. Images of the omegas that had wandered onto Hale land when he was a kid, only to be ripped in half at the hand of hunters, haunt his dreams even now, and – yeah, he gets it.

“Not for born wolves.”

“For those that weren’t born, then? It’s possible?”

Stiles’ grip on the bench behind him is so tight that his knuckles gleam whitely in the dim light of the room. Derek takes this in, even as he inclines his head in a nod.

_“How?”_

“They have to kill the alpha that bit them.”

Stiles freezes, his expression struck as if Derek had just physically punched him.

“Is that… Is that the only way?”

Stiles smells of misery and pain, and Derek is at a loss at how to react. His hand twitches at his side, and he finds himself possessed by the urge to reach out and touch him, comfort him – when his words make a sudden, sickening amount of sense.

“You don’t have an alpha.”

It’s not a question, but Stiles doesn’t look surprised, doesn’t even try to cover it with an obvious lie; just deflates, burying his face into the crook of his arms.

“Yeah.”

“Is there even a pack?”

Stiles sends him a sharp glance, wary in a way it hasn’t been in weeks. He seems to struggle with himself, before coming to a decision to answer the question.

“No.” His gaze flickers across Derek’s features, his bottom lip twisting between his teeth. “Is that an issue?”

When he asks, his voice is confident, _defiant_ , but his fingers tremble where they clench the table, white-knuckled in their grip on the wood.

Something in Derek responds to this, and carefully _,_ slowly, he finds himself moving his hand until the tips of their fingers brush. Stiles glances at their touching hands, and then back to Derek, eyes widening, and Derek forces himself to meet his gaze to give emphasis to his next statement.

“It’s not an issue.”

It’s not something Derek had been planning on saying, but he’s not surprised to find that he means it. Stiles has proved himself, repeatedly, not to be a threat over the last two months. It’s only fair that Derek shows him a little of the same.

Stiles watches him for a moment longer, his eyes flickering across his expression, looking for anything that could belie his sincerity, and Derek waits as he makes his assessment.

Finally, Stiles sags against the railing, and it seems as if all of his breath leaves him all in one go. He rests his forehead against the metal, silent for a few moments before he tilts his head and offers Derek a small, tentative smile.

It’s fragile, but honest, the first honest expression he’s shown Derek from behind the constant stream of sarcasm and witticisms, and Derek offers him a small, honest smile in return. Stiles smile widens, before he ducks his head, scrubbing at the back of his head.

“I guess the cat is out of the bag. Is there anything else you want to know?”

Derek glances away, focusing on a vague point of light in the distance, thinking it over. It’s not as if he hadn’t suspected, but having his suspicions confirmed, that this pack was barely more than a group of omegas… changes things, considerably.

The threat to him and Laura is gone. The threat to this group of kids – barely adults – is not.

God, it was a miracle that they were all still alive.

“What can you tell me about your group?”

“There’s not much to tell. We have one wolf, Scott. I think I’ve mentioned him before.” He had mentioned him, in passing; Scott did this, Scott’s hapless love life, all part of the running commentary on anything and everything that accompanied Stiles within the lab. “One… something else. She was bitten, but didn’t turn. She seems to know when things are about to happen, though; it makes her scream. She moved out of state a few years ago, and hasn’t been back since.”

Derek blinks at that. One omega and something that at least _seemed_ to be a banshee, living under the radar – it was unheard of. It was a cruel fact of life that most omegas were found and hunted down within a year from when they were made, especially when their alpha didn’t stick around.

“How did Scott make it through the change?”

“It was rough. We – I had to chain him to the radiator to make sure he didn’t claw my guts out. We were lucky that he managed to find an anchor so quickly, but… he won’t go to college until he’s sure.”

He wants to ask where he was from, which territory – but Stiles looks skittish, eyes flickering to the side, he decides that this will be enough for now. He’s sure that Laura will agree with his conclusion, though: they needed to meet them in person.

“Would you be ok if we met him?”

Stiles is quiet for a while, his head bowed as he thinks. Finally, he raises his head, taking in a deep breath before releasing it in a gust, giving a short nod.

“Yeah. That should be ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but expect the next part later tonight~!


	4. part four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We are the Hale pack, or what remains of it. What of it?”_
> 
> _Scott glances between them in, eyes narrowed, before nodding pointedly towards the interior of their apartment._
> 
> _“Is Peter here?”_
> 
> _Derek releases a subdued snarl, but Laura shoots him a sharp look, a hand rising to rest against his arm, her expression still wary but twisted in question as she turns back to face Scott._
> 
> _“How do you know about him?”_
> 
> _Scott shakes his head, and when his back begins to tremble, Stiles tightens his grip on his shoulder, anchoring him. “Where is Peter Hale?”_
> 
> _“He’s-”_
> 
> _“Dead.” Derek interrupts smoothly, fangs flashing behind his lips as he finally meets Scott’s gaze. “I killed him. The fire that killed the rest of our family drove him insane, and when he tried to kill Laura, I tore out his throat.”_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another playlist recommendation, [tell me another beautiful lie](http://8tracks.com/ejunkiet/tell-me-another-beautiful-lie), because I'm a sucker for pain. Enjoy the next installment of 'wolf dexter'!

It takes several days to make the plans, and then another week before Scott can take the time out from his job at the veterinary clinic to drive up to the capital to meet them for dinner. Laura and he chose their place for the privacy, but also because Stiles has seen it and knows it, whilst Derek has never set foot in Stiles student apartment, and has made no plans to ever do so.

There are nerves fluttering around his stomach as he makes his way up the short flight of steps to their apartment – and really, the place is beautiful, all old-brick and ivy-strewn walls – which he grapples with as he struggles to maintain his composure. His reaction is ridiculous – he’s seen pretty much all there is to see regarding werewolf natures and Derek - but this feels different, more intimate, visiting his home, seeing him with his sister, his pack.

Scott squeezes his hand, glancing at him with concern before leaning in close to murmur softly into his ear. “It’ll be okay - I talked to Deaton about this. They’ve invited us. If they do anything to us, they break neutrality, and the emissary’s are free to retaliate.”

It doesn’t quite make Stiles feel better, but he appreciates the effort all the same, squeezing Scott’s fingers in return. He can do this. They can do this. This _will_ go well.

Stiles takes a rallying breath, and then they’ve reached the door, and before Stiles has even reached up to knock, it swings open. Derek’s expression is neutral, his eyes flashing once as he glances at Stiles before his gaze transfers to Scott, searching him from head to foot. Stiles feels it when Scott straightens, metaphorical hackles raising, and he squeezes the hand within his grip to ground him.

The small movement catches Derek’s attention, his eyes flickering to where their hands are still joined, fingers intertwined, and Stiles is quick to break the contact, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, remembering too late that he’d used promised himself he wouldn’t do that when he chose to use gel this morning. At times like this, he missed the days when he kept his hair cropped short, so he didn’t end up looking like a deranged lunatic when he ran his hands through it. After this, maybe he’d just lop the whole thing off.

“Derek. This is Scott McCall.”

Derek nods, once. His eyes don’t leave Scott’s, and although the air feels tense, there is no animosity there, and his posture is relaxed as he gestures behind himself.

“I’m Derek Hale. This is my sister, Laura.”

Laura steps out from behind Derek, leaning against the frame of what looks to be the entryway into the kitchen, and the Hale genetics must be strong, as there are so many aspects of her that ring similar to Derek. They have the same serious expression, the same soft-green eyes, and a quirk of a smile that strikes a note in his memory that he can’t quite put his finger on -- before all of a sudden, it hits him.

Laura and Derek _Hale._

_Oh shit._

Scott seems to come to the same realisation at that exact moment, his frame tensing as he lets out a short exclamation, before sputtering out the question: “you’re the _Hale pack?”_

Stiles is frozen on the spot, his heart kicking up in speed and his tongue thick within his throat, as his thoughts whirl with the realisation of just how profoundly stupid he’s been.

 _The Hale Pack._ Stiles remembered reading the articles, after Peter had introduced himself, claws to his throat and Lydia’s broken body beneath them, learning about the fire and the deaths of most of the family, and jesus, he’d only skimmed the details of the two remaining Hales, had just focused on Peter and the question of _why_ he could be doing this, but Stiles could have – _should have_ \- connected the dots earlier, as he knew their _names._

 _Derek Hale_. Peter had mentioned him, when his fangs had hovered over his wrist, his offer on the table, grip tightening until it was painful when Stiles snarked about not wanting to live with dog breath for the rest of his life – and although he hadn’t mentioned his name, a smile was on his face as he’d bent Stiles towards the ground, commenting on how much Stiles reminded him of his favourite nephew before he gave him a glancing blow to the head, sending his world into black.

It’d stuck with him, as that had been the last time Stiles had seen him, the last time any of their little pack had seen him. Two days later, with the death of Kate Argent – that Stiles had learned was _responsible_ for the Hale fire, piecing together the scraps of information and clues in time for his father to posthumously charge the Argent with their deaths - the murders in Beacon Hills had come to a stop altogether. The craziness that had consumed their lives for the past two months had come to an unexpected, anticlimactic close.

Their unexplained reaction sends off all the wrong signals and the Hale’s shift closer together, expressions closing down as they take up a more defensive stance. Scott lets out a growl, and for a moment it looks as if Derek will step forward between Scott and Stiles, but a glance from Laura causes him to hang back, although his eyes remain glued to the space where Stiles’ hand has raised to grip Scott’s shoulder, anchoring him as best he can. Laura is the first to speak, her eyes glowing a faint crimson as she presses Derek behind her, the alpha strong within her voice.

“We are the Hale pack, or what remains of it. What of it?”

Scott glances between them in, eyes narrowed, before nodding pointedly towards the interior of their apartment.

“Is Peter here?”

Derek releases a subdued snarl, but Laura shoots him a sharp look, a hand rising to rest against his arm, her expression still wary but twisted in question as she turns back to face Scott.

“How do you know about him?”

Scott shakes his head, and when his back begins to tremble, Stiles tightens his grip on his shoulder, anchoring him. “Where is Peter Hale?”

“He’s-”

“Dead.” Derek interrupts smoothly, fangs flashing behind his lips as he finally meets Scott’s gaze. “I killed him. The fire that killed the rest of our family drove him insane, and when he tried to kill Laura, I tore out his throat.”

There’s a story there, more to the tale of the Hale fire than had been popular knowledge, but Stiles is still too shocked by the sudden confirmation of something Stiles had suspected for a while now. Peter Hale is _dead._

Before the silence can drag on too long, Scott breaks it. His tone is subdued, but the way his hands clench into tight fists at his sides belie his calm. “He was my alpha.”

The change in atmosphere within the group is immediate, confusion and hostility fading. Derek and Laura exchange a long look, before Derek releases a sigh, turning on his heel and moving back into the house.

Laura turns to face them, hands folding neatly across her chest as she steps to the side, nodding towards the interior of the apartment. “Well, you better come in.”

\---

They follow Laura through the winding corridor, ending up at a small but comfortable living room largely dominated by windows, and a small, boarded up fireplace. Derek is on the small loveseat, and you might be able to interpret his posture as relaxed if you hadn’t spent weeks reading into minute changes of his expression. Stiles, however, could read the tension within his features, the minute ticking of his jaw.

Laura takes a seat alongside her brother, knees tucked in close to keep them clear of the coffee table as she gestures to the comfortable looking chairs opposite. “Please, sit.”

“I know you must have a lot of questions, but please, understand that we do too. There are things we need to know.”

They nod, and Derek speaks up, hands white-knuckled in their grip on the arm rest.

“You’re from Beacon Hills?” They nod, and Derek continues. “That would make your father-” here he points at Stiles, gaze piercing into him, “Sheriff Stilinski. Scott must have been turned around five years ago. Does he know about this?”

“No. Deaton – the veterinarian - he’s a druid, an emissary he said, although he wouldn’t elaborate on what that meant - and he taught Scott and I everything we needed to know, and we managed to keep it secret until we head off to university. It helped that Scott found an anchor so quickly.”

“That brings us to our second question: his anchor.” Laura inclines her head to where Stiles hand is wrapped around Scott’s bicep, grip tight, anchoring him. “Is it you?”

Stiles shakes his head, but it’s Scott who answers this time. “It’s not him. I have - Allison.”

“His fiancé. It’s gotten harder, since she’s moved out of state for school, but we’ve gotten a handle on that.”

“Have there been any incidents?”

“Aside from when we first met Peter, and what happened to Scott and our friend Lydia, nothing.” Stiles rolls his shoulders in a shrug, stealing a glance at Derek, only to quickly look away when he finds his eyes still on him, burning in their intensity. “You’re the first pack we’ve come across, as well.”

Peter. It’s unspoken, but his name lingers in the air, souring the comfortable atmosphere of the room. Laura’s stoic expression twists, a flicker of pain that fades from view as fast as it had appeared.

“We didn’t know what he’d done until it was too late.”

Laura takes in a deep breath, the tension draining from her shoulders as her head dips until it’s resting in her hands. Derek shifts subtly at her side, his hand somehow finding its way onto her shoulder as he closes the distance between them, and she leans into the touch.

“The last time we saw him, he was trapped within his own head. We’d never expected to see him again.” She sighs, lifting her head to look at them, and it seems almost unconscious when Derek leans his weight towards her, their knees brushing together as she sends him a small smile. “We’re sorry for what he did to you. We – didn’t know.”

Derek speaks up then, his head bowed so that Stiles can’t make out his expression. “We had no idea you existed. If we did – things would have gone differently.”

Laura nods, her eyes flickering between Stiles and Scott as her hand reaches back to squeeze Derek’s gently. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Stiles lets out a laugh, and it must be somewhat hysterical as Derek’s eyes settle on his, his features creased with enough concern that Stiles feels a pang of guilt. Getting a better handle on his emotions, he gives an apologetic shrug. “There’s nothing much to tell. On the night that they found the dead woman in the woods – or, half of one – Scott got bitten. It took me a few days to pull together the clues, but we managed the first moon, and then later, we had help.”

“Deaton.”

They look surprised, and Scott takes the opportunity to speak up.

“He never mentioned you, in particular, but you must have a history – he knew all about your pack before the, you know…”

Laura nods, even as she glances sideways at Derek, her hands twisting together in her lap before she takes a breath and forcibly stills them.

“I guess that makes sense. Before the fire, he worked closely with our mother, helping balance out the pack and the other supernatural forces in the area. We haven’t had dealings with him for years.”

Derek growls, and when Stiles glances at him, he elaborates, “we didn’t trust him, and he didn’t trust us. We didn’t bother keeping in contact when we left town.”

“Anyway,” Laura interrupts, placing a hand on her brother’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. He relaxes minutely under her hand, and she’ll take that for a win. “What Peter did to you… whilst I can’t undo what he did, I can offer you something that can hopefully work to repair what he did. Protection. Family.”

She glances over at Derek for confirmation, and he nods, his gaze calm as it flickers between Stiles and Scott. He must have guessed that she’d offer

“We want to offer you a place in our pack.” Her eyes flick to Stiles, and he startles, grip tightening around the arm of his chair. “That means all of you.”

Stiles – Stiles looks to Scott, as really, this is his decision. Scott looks about as conflicted as Stiles feels, mouth opening and then closing, lost for words.

“You don’t have to answer now. We’d like you to think about this. I just want to say… that this way? You’re safer. Whenever you need help, we’ll be there to support you. We can also mentor you. There’s a lot that you don’t know, both of you.”

Scott looks to Stiles, who gives a shrug, glancing down at his feet. “I’m not going to be the first word for this. I’ll wait for Scott’s decision.”

“I’ll need a minute.”

\---

After, Derek catches his eye, gesturing to the hall. With a quick glance at Scott, who’s taken out his phone to try to catch Allison before it gets too late, Stiles nods, following him as they pass through the centre of the house towards the kitchen, where Derek rifles through the fridge to grab a beer, tossing it his way. He grabs one of his own, rolling the bottle between his hands, putting together what he wants to say as Stiles watches, taking a swig of his drink.

It takes him a few tries, but then he finally comes up with something he can work with.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?”

Stiles rolls his shoulders in a shrug, eyes gleaming as he shoots Derek a smile. His early wariness is gone. “Sure.”

“How did your father… piece together what happened with the fire?”

“It wasn’t just him. Chris Argent, he helped.” Something of Derek’s reactions to that must show, as Stiles quickly raises his hands, fingers splayed wide and open. “There’s more you need to know. Scott’s anchor, his fiancé -- it’s Allison, his daughter. Chris – Chris has helped up, albeit reluctantly. He’s kept his family off our backs.”

Stiles sighs, lowering his hands to run them through his hair, tugging harshly at the strands. “In fact, we even didn’t know there were more like them, or that hunting was really a _thing_ until you mentioned it, when we first met. Scott asked Allison about it, who asked Chris… and from what I heard, it wasn’t pretty.”

“Derek. _Derek._ Hey, listen.” Stiles is there, suddenly, ducking until he can catch Derek’s gaze. “They’ve been together for years. We know we can trust them.”

The adrenaline lingers in his system, the flash of panic that had through him at the mention of the Argents, but he’s handling it. He breathes for a minute, deep and thorough, even as he places a hand against Stiles chest, pushing him back gently.

“It’s ok. Just don’t expect a big meet up anytime soon.”

Stiles’ lips quirk into a smirk at that, drawing Derek’s eyes with the movement. He leans back, arms crossing over his chest as he settles his weight on his heels. “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting you to.”

Derek gives him a smile, or at least a rough approximation of one, but he may as well not have bothered as Stiles just frowns, a small furrow of concern forming between his brows as his eyes flicker across Derek’s features.

Derek ducks away from the scrutiny, looking for an out. “Your father, the Sheriff. How did you keep it from him?”

It’s not subtle, but Stiles humours him, even though his eyes still glance over him every minute or so. “It was difficult. He knows… something was going on around the time of the mountain lion attacks, but he never quite managed to get the evidence he needed.”

They’re interrupted by footsteps in the hall outside – how Derek had managed to miss them until now gives away more than Derek had been planning on showing - and Laura walks in with a smile, eyes bright as she waves to them cheerfully, Scott close behind. Scott glances at Derek, before giving Stiles a small smile of his own, his eyes glowing beta-gold.

“I said yes.”

\--

Scott stays for a week, and they spend almost every evening at the Hale’s place, and Stiles even gets to see Scott drunk for the first time when they teach him the trick with the wolfsbane, getting his drool all over Stiles' favourite hoodie.

It’s while Scott is sleeping that Stiles really gets the chance to talk to Laura, and learn more about the Hales than the scant details he had managed to get from the Hale Family file before they were sealed with the death of Kate Argent. She’s a lot like Derek, and yet not; and a force to be reckoned with, with a dangerous smile and a sharp tongue.

Scott snuffles into his hoodie, and Stiles pats his hair absently, mind wandering as he stares at the drink in his hand, not really seeing it.

“Has this been hard for you?”

Stiles glances up to find Laura’s eyes on him, warm but serious, clear in a way that Derek’s had not been before he’d stumbled upstairs with a mumbled ‘night’. He’s surprised by the timing of the question, but not the question itself; it was a painful topic for Scott, the impact his change had made on both of their lives, and they tended to avoid the topic. With Scott out of it though, Stiles can’t see any reason not to broach the subject.

He gives out a long sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. It didn’t mean it was easy, though.

“It’s been a ride. Then again, no one has ever said living in Beacon Hills was easy.”

She smiles in agreement, but doesn’t continue, gaze falling to Scott and the easy rise and fall of his chest to the rhythm of his breaths.

“You can join us, you know. If you wanted.” The breath hitches in Stiles’ throat, and Laura’s eyes flick back to his, the empty bottle she’s been playing with swapping to one hand as she raises the other in placation. “No one is pressuring you. Just, if you’re interested.”

Stiles nods, keeping his eyes carefully trained on his drink, and ignoring the way his heart hammers within his chest.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. But, I like myself like this, the way I am now. I’ve turned down this offer before.”

Her eyes widen briefly, before narrowing into crimson crescents that glow from across the room.

“Peter.”

“Yeah. There was a – he wanted to expand his pack, and one night – junior prom, actually – he used a friend of mine to get close to us, and then I sort of traded myself for her. We talked.” Stiles takes a deep breath, fingers tightening around his arms. The image of Lydia, splayed broken and bloody across the green of the lacrosse pitch is one he will never, ever be able to get rid of, even if he had the perfectly healthy and very-much-alive Lydia of right now to compare it to. “He was – _insane_ – and I thought I wouldn’t get the choice, wouldn’t get to say no. But, then he left, and we never saw him again.”

“He was our favourite uncle. He – changed.”

Stiles nods, twisting his fingers together.

“We found out more about him, after. About why he did it, and – the truth about the fire.”

Laura’s eyes flicker to the stairwell, and she nods, lips twisting into a frown. “We learned a lot that night.”

That reminds him of a question that’s been simmering at the back of his mind for a while, and he glances over at her, mulling on the idea of possibly asking her. He’s just about decided to let it go when she rolls her eyes, reaching over to thump him lightly on the leg.

“Jesus, you’re worse than my brother. Out with it.”

“Ow – what?”

She taps him again. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know you have a question. Out with it.”

“Fine, fine… I was just wondering…” He trails off, watching as she readjusts her weight, making herself comfortable. When she’s done, she raises a brow at him, and he coughs, forcing himself to continue. “How did you become the Alpha? I mean, the police report says that you weren’t there that night, and everything I’ve read says it must be – taken.”

Her brow rises higher, if that was possible, and going over his response, he realises just what he’s revealed: that he’s been through their _police reports_. Shit. Laura doesn’t seem to mind though, a small smile quirking at her lips as she leans back into chair, eyes narrowed as she swings the empty bottle between her fingertips.

“It was my – inheritance.” At Stiles' confused expression, her smile widens minutely, eyes flashing bright crimson once again. “The wolf has been passed along our bloodline for generations. These eyes are the Hale legacy, what I inherited from our mother. In born wolves, alpha potential can be born, and awoken when the alpha dies.”

Stiles mouth widens to a small ‘o’, and Laura laughs at his expression.

“So curious! And you’re sure you don’t want to try it for yourself?”

When he glances back at her, her eyes are crinkled with amusement, belying the seriousness of the question, and Stiles manages a smile in return.

“Absolutely positive. It’s just not for me. Thanks, though. For the offer.”

Laura lets out an exaggerated sigh, even as her mouth twists into a wry grin. “If you ever change your mind, all you have to do is ask.”

\--

Scott comes down the next month, and then the month after, using up all his holiday days in one go like the loveable idiot he is. The Hales run him through some rudimentary training, providing tips on how to control himself during the full moon when Allison is out of town at university, and for the first time in years, Stiles feels like he can _breathe._ Scott’s getting it, _really_ getting it, and they are all going to make it out of this ok.

They also learn about pack, and what exactly that means. The Hales, in the past, were a family in every sense of the word: composed of both human and non-human family members that lived under the same roof in Beacon Hills. They’d had daily routines, tight school-schedules coupled with nightly patrols of their land and what Laura called ‘bonding sessions’ and Derek rolled his eyes and termed ‘glorified puppy piles’, as it turned out a big part of pack mentality was _contact._

This was a fact that Stiles had already guessed at, due to the many clues that Scott had given them over the years: the nature of the relationship between Scott and Allison, and how on sleepovers he’d found that Scott had snuck into his room over the night, his head by Stiles’ feet with his nose crushed against an ankle – but for the Hales, it went beyond that.

It’s quieter when Scott is not around, but Stiles still finds himself more often than not at the Hale place, kicking around on their sofa or cooking dinner for the three of them. It’s a Sunday afternoon after Scott has left for the week that Stiles’ curiosity becomes too much.

“So can I ask,” he gestures at where Derek has taken his ankles and placed them neatly in his lap, his hand curled around one of them loosely as he does the Sunday crossword, “about the… this?”

Derek ignores the question – Stiles had expected nothing less – but Laura favours him a wink, sauntering over to drop down beside him on the arm rest of the loveseat, draping an arm over his shoulder.

“The touching?” He glances up to find her eyes twinkling as Derek groans, his expression pained as he narrows his eyes at her over the crossword.

“Don’t call it that.”

Laura reaches over Sties to bat at Derek’s legs, grinning as he calmly gives her the finger, before she finally turns back to Stiles. “It’s a pack thing. So that you.” She inhales deeply, a wide smile breaking across her features “smell like us.”

Derek’s expression is mildly offended as he lowers the paper. “We can’t exactly help it.”

Stiles raises his hands up in a gesture of surrender, even as he feels his grin widen in spite of himself. “It’s no biggie, I was just curious.”

“I like curiosity.” Laura glances between Stiles and Derek as her own grin softens into something more contemplative. “Do you want to know more? We’d be happy to teach you.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure. I don’t see any reason why not. Derek?”

“I don’t have a problem with it.”

Laura’s eyes sparkle. “Alright. Where should we start?”

\--

Stiles spends the evening, and then most of the night, talking, and it’s only when Laura is gently shaking him awake to get him to move lower on the loveseat that he realises he’s fallen asleep.

There’s a blanket over his shoulders, tucked firmly beneath his armpits, and his shoes are no-longer on his feet, and he tries to apologise, but Laura just shakes her head, pushing him firmly back onto the couch and removing the jacket he’d been using as an impromptu pillow to replace it with an actual pillow as she tucks him in. It’s ridiculous, and he feels like a child - a rude, intrusive child who fell asleep while they were telling him about their family history - but it’s also so, _so_ comfortable, and before Stiles knows it, he’s fallen asleep again, Laura’s hand on his forehead, brushing the hair from his brow.

He wakes to a bright, sunlit living room with a cup of coffee steaming on the coffee table.

Derek appears shortly after, hovering in the doorway as Stiles levers himself upright, absently rubbing at the crick of his neck as he straighten out his legs, groaning as he stretches, long and languidly like a cat.

There’s a muffled sound from the doorway, and Stiles glances over to see Derek glance away, trying and failing to hide a smirk behind his hand. “ _Oi._ What is it?”

“It’s nothing. What do you think of the coffee?”

Stiles reaches for it, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. Oh god. It’s _heavenly_. Derek smirk grows wider as Stiles lets out another small groan, and Stiles doesn’t care, smiling happily as he takes another sip of delicious goodness. “What time is it?”

“Five to nine.”

Oh. “Shit. _Shit_.”

Derek snorts again, not bothering to hide it this time as he finally steps out from the doorway, joining Stiles by the coffee table. He crouches briefly, collecting his trademark leather jacket from where it’d fallen to the floor, glancing back at Stiles as he shrugs it on. “We’re about twenty minutes out. Do you want to borrow a shirt?”

“ _Please_.”

\--

In the end, Stiles winds up keeping the shirt, a comfortably worn Henley with faint stains on the sleeves that’s just a little too-wide across the chest.

\--

From then on, Stiles ends up spending most of his weeknights with the Hales. After a few impromptu sleepovers, where they’ve ended up talking too late into the night for it to be safe for Stiles to drive, Stiles takes to carrying a spare set of clothes in the jeep, just in case. At some point, this ends up as a spare drawer in the Hale house, and a cupboard of spices in the kitchen. There’s a Thursday Pot Luck and everything.

They teach him how to counteract enhanced strength and senses, to better evade and track what he cannot see. Without enhanced, supernatural abilities, there are limits to what Stiles can hope to achieve, but he’s a quick learner, and it turns out he’s taken lesson with the county sheriff department in Beacon Hills. Stiles adds workouts to his routine, jogging into work in the mornings and taking advantage of the shower’s at the company gym, and before long, he’s in the best shape he’s been in years.

Occasionally, when the sun sets, he hitches a lift on Derek’s back as part of elaborate tracking tests, sometimes in his beta form and occasionally the alpha, and it’s exhilarating, feeling the world roar around them, the casual ease in which Derek leaps over downed trees, rivers, and even, on one memorable occasion, a six-wheeler on a mountain road – and while they wait, they talk.

It starts off innocent at first, just small things. They debate theories, theorise evolutionary strategies for the other creatures Stiles has read about – and when he brings that up, he has to talk about the Argents, explain how Chris had helped them, albeit reluctantly, after Peter had disappeared.

When they get tired of arguing, they play questions, learning small facts about each other: colour, authors, best childhood memory, favourite teacher in Beacon Hills high. As the days pass, and Stiles spends more and more time in the forest with Derek, though, they begin to trade secrets, taking advantage of the near-blackness of the night, whispers lost in the dark.

Stiles learns more about the other side of Derek on those lazy nights than he had in the weeks and months of them working together. He learns about his childhood and his many, many cousins, about how much he loved his family home, how much he misses them, all of them. He talks about his passion for research, for understanding what they are, and one night, with the oak moon hanging fat and brilliant over them, Derek tells him about how he’d missed his opportunity, given up his paid-studentship in New York and moved to the capital with Laura.

At some point, Stiles realises that he’s made a breakthrough. Derek has so many defences, so many lines that Stiles is afraid to cross – but for the first time since he met him, he feels as if he’s being given a glance behind the wall that Derek has built around himself.

It’s a good feeling.

**\--**

They spend Christmas together, and this time when Scott comes down again, he brings Allison, nervous but confident, gaze strong as she nods a greeting and silently hands over the dish of mince pies she bought from the store. The atmosphere is tense at first, but that doesn’t last long, not when Stiles makes the point of stuffing three mince pies into his mouth, causing Scott to choke on barely withheld laughter and Derek to roll his eyes – and it’s comfortable after that.

If he notices that Derek hovers closer to him the entire time, skin brushing against this own when he joins him at the sink, arms laden with used plates and cutlery, he doesn’t complain, just leans his weight to press back into him. And if his dreams about Derek after that are just a tad more frequent, who’s to know? Werewolves aren’t mind readers – _and_ _thank god for that._

_\--_

It seems like no time at all before he’s approaching his final month in the capital.


	5. part five: choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Later, Derek whispers it so quietly, his voice so soft that Stiles isn’t sure he didn’t dream it, half-asleep with the soft sweep of Derek’s fingers through his hair._
> 
> _“I want this. I want you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh dear lord, I've finally finished this. There may be small updates over the week. Bless you all for following this so far. I hope you enjoy the final part! (Watch out for an epilogue later!)

_“I - I have the same choices as you do (as you do)_

_When you fall, fall like I knew you would; lead me down, down, down.”_

\- [Choices, by to kill a king](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3_TWoskKV4)

**\--**

Things have been continuing very much the same for the last couple weeks.

As the next full moon approaches, Derek shows Stiles the research he’s collected and his current working thesis, but even with the initial blood work and preliminary genetic tests he’d managed to conduct under the radar, it’s easy to see how much his research has been restricted by the limitations of his position. His frustration is almost palpable, clouding his mood, although he manages to maintain his duties to his usual fastidious standard.

Finally it becomes too much, and Stiles broaches the subject he’s been skirting for the last few months, when it became evident that Derek was incredibly over-qualified for the work he was doing.

“Why don’t you just go back to school?”

Derek pauses in collecting his research notes, hands lingering on the papers as his expression twists with some emotion Stiles can’t identify. “It’s- complicated.”

“No. I don’t believe it is.” He turns, eyeing Derek. “You have the money. You have the experience. Hell, you know the techniques better than half the post-docs here. What’s holding you back?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But-”

“No, Stiles.” He shakes his head and starts collecting his things again, shoulders stiff, and shit, Stiles has probably just crossed one of the lines around Derek Hale that he’s drawn to keep everyone away – but he just wants to _understand._

“What happened to you? It’s like you’re punishing yourself, and I just can’t see _why_ -”

Derek slams his laptop bag shut, eyes flashing as he bares his teeth in a silent snarl at Stiles, and in moments Stiles finds himself pressed back against his bench as Derek lets out growl a, right into his face.

“I said _no,_ Stiles.”

He storms away, yanking the door open so hard there’s a large crash as it collides with the wall. “Don’t bother coming by tonight.”

\--

Derek knows, objectively, that he’d overreacted, but his hands are shaking, and he can’t keep his thoughts straight. He doesn’t remember pulling his car up into the drive, doesn’t remember how he made it to the house in one piece. All he knows is that he needs to get to Laura.

When he steps in the door, Laura calls out a greeting from the other room and he beelines towards her, meeting her in the kitchen. She’s elbow-deep in the gimmick ‘Christmas’ oven gloves that Stiles had gifted them over the holidays, and she frowns as she notices that Derek’s alone.

“Where’s Stiles?”

“He’s not coming.” Her brows raise at that as she glances from the fit-to-bursting oven to where Derek hovers uncomfortably in the hallway. “Well, that’s a bit shit. Did something happen?”

“I asked him not to come.”

She pauses, hands on her hips as her eyes glance over him, cool and assessing, before coming forward to wrap him in her arms.

“You idiot.”

\--

Stiles goes to bed feeling confused, thoughts whirling around his head.

He’s still awake in the middle of the night when he gets a text, the illumination rom the screen lighting up the wall beside his bed. It’s from Laura, and his fingers tremble a little as he unlocks the screen, skimming through the message. It’s short and perfunctory, but not in an unfriendly way, just asks him to ‘give him time’.

He brings Derek a cup of his favourite latte in the morning, and the small smile he gets in return makes his heart lighter. It’s not long before they settle back into their normal rhythm of companionable banter and sarcastic commentary.

The final weeks pass by in a flurry of experimental repeats, sorting through notes and compiling his work. He spends the last week working on the reports, bent almost double over his laptop with a desk littered with energy drinks and academic papers. When he’s finished, it’s both a relief and a tragedy.

He can’t keep hiding from the truth, now: his time is almost up.

Derek invites him out with him during the Wolf moon, and when he shifts, he shifts fully –which apparently Derek didn’t know he could do either. When it happens, he howls, falling onto all fours and scaring the ever-living shit out of Stiles in the process as he shifts past the alpha form, his limbs lengthening and the pelt of hair shrouding his form thickening, until he’s more creature than anything else.

For a long, horrible moment, Stiles thinks that it’ll end there, with this three-quarters wolf, one-quarter simian monstrosity, before Derek whines, crumpling the final few inches to the floor, bones crunching into place, and Stiles finds himself staring at a much fluffier, much wolfier version of Derek.

Derek looks as shocked and surprised as he does, nosing forward until his muzzle rests in Stiles’ palm.

_“Holy shit.”_

It turns out that Derek’s new form, with its thick fur and heavy paws, is much better than any blanket against the chill of the early spring air, and they end up continuing with their plans anyway,

It’s nice to lay there for a while, his fingers buried in thick, black fur, gazing at the moon and stars. Derek’s form is like a furry furnace against his back, his h breaths steaming over the back of his neck when he tilts his head in for more comfort, and it’s almost enough to distract him from the present, and the fact that he’s going to leave this all behind.

He doesn’t want to think about how much he’ll miss this, and so he doesn’t, enjoying this moment with Derek, brushing his fingers through his fur until he forgets about the future, dozing off in the middle of the woods.

\--

A few days later, when Stiles opens the door to his apartment, he’s both surprised and not surprised at all to find Derek on his doorstep. He’s leaning against the doorbell with an unreadable expression, and it’s probably the first time Derek’s visited him here, so Stiles tries to see it from his perspective as Derek takes in the place: the shoddy plaster job, the paint peeling from the door, a cheap rental nightmare.

It’s nothing like the Hale house with its stylish modern décor, and frankly, Stiles is glad to be leaving it.

When he glances back at Derek, his eyes are already on his face, his lips twisted into an unhappy curve that makes him look like a kicked puppy. He’s channelling some serious Scott, and Jesus fucking Christ, if it doesn’t just break Stiles heart in two.

“I didn’t think you were leaving so soon.”

“Well, yeah. I have to be out of here the day after tomorrow. It sorta snuck up on me.”

“Me too.” He smiles then, and its soft and bittersweet. “I thought we’d have more time.”

There’s a warm burst of something warm in Stiles’ chest at that, and he somehow manages a smile.

“Would you like to come in?”

\--

“I’m sorry for the mess-”

He turns around and Derek is so much closer than he was before, his cheeks flushed as he crowds Stiles up against the closed door. Stiles has enough sense of self to flip the lock on the door before he gives his full attention to the man before him, and jesus, they’re close enough that he can feel the rush of Derek’s breath against his cheek.

“Hey.”

He’s a little breathless, gaze flickering between his lips and his eyes, nervously licking his lips, and shit, he sees it when Derek tracks the movement. His heart skips a beat when Derek murmurs, “ _I’m going to miss you_ ,” and thank god, he wasn’t the only one feeling this.

“Me too.”

Derek takes another step forward, snaking his arms around Stiles until their bodies are pulled flush against each other, rubbing small circles into the skin skirting the edges of his shirt before Stiles’ hands are climbing, and he’s clinging to Derek’s shoulders, skimming his neck and burying in his hair, and just like that, they come together. _Finally._

His lips are warm and chapped, soft in the first gentle brush, before he exhales in a long, exhausting breath, and they both push forward, biting at each other’s lips in a mess of tongues and teeth. It’s clumsy, with their teeth clicking together in the desperate, rapid pace they’ve set for themselves, but Derek’s hands are warm against the small of Stiles’ back, somehow having snuck under his clothes, and Stiles is clinging on for dear life, fingers tangled within Derek’s hair as he pulls him closer, _closer_ , until they both have to break for breath, gasping.

Derek’s lips are flushed red, and Stiles can feel the burn from his stubble on his skin, but he honestly at that moment couldn’t give a flying fuck. He breathes against Derek’s skin, filtering through the smells of him: sweat, a faint whiff of formaldehyde – he must have been preserving samples earlier – and, below all of that, something warm and comforting, and ultimately _Derek._

He can feel hot breath against his skin as Derek mouths down his cheek, his jaw, burying his face into his neck where he inhales deep against his skin, releasing his breath in a low sigh. Stiles drags a hand up his back, until his fingers are nestled comfortably in the warm hair at the nape of his neck, massaging the skin there.

“Why didn’t we try that earlier?”

Derek tries and fails to muffle a snort, huffing against Stiles skin until Stiles tightens his grip on his hair and tugs lightly, pouting. _“Oi.”_ Still chuckling, Derek leans back until they can see each other, giving him a wry smile. “I think Laura would say that it’s because we are both, and I quote: ‘idiots’.”

Stiles tilts his head forward until their foreheads rest together, gaze flickering towards Derek’s lips where they’ve softened into a small smile, where Derek’s hands encircle his hips, and. _Shit_. “Can we do that again?”

He glances back to find Derek’s eyes are closed, breathing deeply as he nods. He leans forward, and Stiles has enough time to take a breath before their lips brush again, simple and chaste. It’s gentler this time, careful, as if he’s just as afraid as Stiles that he’s going to fuck something up, and that makes something within Stiles break apart **.**

Stiles makes a small noise when they break from the kiss, and Derek lets out a low hum, lips tracing across his cheek to pepper his cheekbones before skimming once more down his jawline and throat, breathing deep. His teeth settle there, lightly, tongue lathing the skin, and he bites down gently before moving on, and it’s getting harder and harder for Stiles to hide the noises he wants to make, to keep his grip from tightening in Derek’s hair and pulling him up – or push him down further-

_“Derek.”_

After a while, Derek pulls back, skimming across his face, his gaze as steady and serious as when they first met, as if he’s committing his features to memory.

“How long do you have?”

Stiles’ breath hitches within his throat. “A few hours.”

“Can I stay?”

Stiles hands skate up his chest, curling themselves within his collar, and Jesus, this is really happening, this is-

“Please.”

Derek’s hands smooth down his back until he catches his knees, supporting Stiles’ weight until he wraps his legs around his waist, and they fall back into the entry way, leaving articles of clothing littered across the floor as they make their way through the flat. When they reach the kitchen, Derek pauses, dropping Stiles onto a counter to pull at the collar of his shirt, tugging it off but making it into a show, a slow display of muscles and skin, and Stiles eyes him longingly, aching to touch, to feel the contact of his skin against his own.

When he finally steps back into arms reach, Stiles grabs him by the belt loops and drags him forward. He can’t stop touching him, reverent of all the skin he can come into contact with, fingers splaying across his chest, and at that moment Stiles is beyond relieved that his flatmates had left the previous weekend, as for a moment he seriously considers just saying _‘fuck it’_ and giving kitchen sex a try.

But Derek – Derek, who’d started this, with a hand down Stiles pants, and another splayed against his chest – Derek pulls back, batting Stiles away before slipping his hands beneath him and lifting him up. He nuzzles into his neck again, licking a line up to his ear before whispering into his ear, the hot rush of his breath sending shivers cascading down his spine.

“Bedroom.”

Stiles doesn’t ask him how he knows where it is – he can guess the answer – just continues with his goal to touch Derek wherever his mouth can reach, mouthing at his collarbone and biting at his neck until he hisses, and then he’s pressing him down into his sheets, knocking over the stacks of shit Stiles had left there this morning and sending the CDs and papers scattering to the floor.

Stiles should be more annoyed by that than he is, but then Derek is licking down his stomach, nuzzling into the trail of hair below his navel, twisting their hands together until their fingers entwine, and it’s so easy to stop thinking and fall into this. He arches his back as Derek’s mouth reaches his waistband, and sweet jesus, he’s struggling to keep his composure, to hold onto the remnants of his slipping control. He _cannot, will_ _not_ ,grind against Derek’s face, but it really has been a while (he has been practically celibate since the Malia debacle) and he almost breaks.

Derek’s grip tightens around his, holding him in a tight, comforting grip as his hips rock against the bed and he groans against Stiles skin.

He’s cheating, and it works – Stiles almost breaks, his hips twitching up from the bed, his cheeks burning as the rest of his body flushes with heat.

“Derek – you _asshole.”_

Derek smothers a laugh against his skin, his grip loosening around his arms as he smoothes a hand down Stiles chest, glancing over a nipple with a touch so light Stiles curses and twists his own hands free, reaching down to sink his fingers in Derek’s hair. Derek glances up at him innocently, alternating between pressing kisses against his skin and nuzzling against his waistband until Stiles gives his hair a short tug, letting out a small growl of frustration.

“ _Come on_.”

Derek hums, before biting the waistband of Stiles’ sweats - the same he’d worn the night they’d met – and the next hour passes in a blur of heat and sweat.

\--

Later, Derek whispers it so quietly, his voice so soft that Stiles isn’t sure he didn’t dream it, half-asleep with the soft sweep of Derek’s fingers through his hair.

“I want this. I want _you._ ”

When the alarm goes off, Derek is in the kitchen with two cups of coffee and the rest of Stiles things in the back of his jeep, but when he kisses Stiles on the stoop, it feels like a promise.

\--

It has been two months since Stiles had moved back home to Beacon Hills.

It’s surprising how easy it was to slip back into the mantle of his old life, step back into his role of overprotective son, maintaining the house and fixing the meals. He has planned to use the time away to apply to grad school and look into getting his PhD, working as a high school tutor in the meanwhile to help with the bills and support his expensive coffee addiction.

He always finds the time to message Derek, their daily conversations covering everything from local gossip to the state of the Mets, and it helps, although he misses him: his dry wit, his passion, even his stupidly short temper.

Recently, though, Derek has been more reticent, asking questions about Stiles, his pack, his job, but remaining tight lipped about anything to do with himself. It’s frustrating, frankly, and Stiles had been making plans to confront him in person about it when he makes his way up to the Capital in a week’s time, when Derek had gone radio silent two days ago.

Derek’s last message had warned he may be out of contact for a while. Stiles hadn’t expected it to take _this long_ to find a phone, send an email, _anything_ though _._

But Stiles is a Stilinski, and a member of the recently realised McCall pack, Scott’s heart shining through in his new alpha nature, and he’s dealt with worse things than this. They’d talked about this, about the distance, and they’d agreed to make it work. Stiles trusts Derek; and he can wait for him.

He scowls at the coffee maker as it coughs and splutters to a stop.

“You stupid fucking piece of shit.”

He may just be terrible at the patiently part.

He slams the lid of the grinder closed, tugging the plug from the socket and shoving the whole thing against the wall siding. Fuck this. He’ll buy a new one later, toss this piece of crap in the trash, and get his caffeine fix elsewhere.

Sighing and deciding to go out and buy himself a _decent_ coffee, Stiles grabs his coat, flings open the front door- and freezes as he finds a startled Derek on his patio, laptop bag at his hip and an empty thermos clipped to his belt.

Stiles blinks at him, at a loss for words. “ _Derek?_ ”

Derek gives him a small smile, his lips curling in a fragile, tentative grin, and he looks sheepish, glancing down at his feet he shuffles his weight between them.

“I’ve been, um, on the road. I had an interview, and then we were driving.”

“Couldn’t call?”

“When we weren’t driving, it was too late to call, or the reception was too poor. I didn’t expect it to take this long, though.” He stops, coughing and glancing up to meet Stiles eyes seriously. “I’m sorry.”

He looks genuinely sorry, and Stiles feels his anger dissipate. “It’s ok. I’m glad you came.”

“Me too.” His smile widens, before he straightens, taking a deep breath. “I needed to talk to you.”

His expression is serious, earnest. “I’ve made some changes. Found an apartment of my own.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s on the outskirts of town. I haven’t signed the lease yet, as I wanted to ask you first. See if we could give this a proper shot.” He takes a deep breath, before finally dragging his gaze up from his feet. “So. This is me. Asking.”

“You want to move here?”

“If that’s ok.”

He looks nervous, shifting on the balls of his feet, but his eyes are steady and calm, searching his features. It feels as if Stiles heart is about to burst out of his chest, and he’s breathless when he answers.

“God yes.”

Derek smiles, and then there is nothing stopping Stiles from grabbing for him, pulling him in close as his hands skim his waist, his shoulders, finally locking behind his head as he crashes their lips together. It’s not elegant, and there’s a little bit of teeth clacking against each other, but it’s still somehow perfect, and as Derek’s arms wrap around him, it fills a hole within him that had been gaping ever since he left DC.

He breaks away with a gasp, resting his forehead against Derek’s, and Derek leans forward to brush their noses together, breathing in deeply as he nuzzles his way along his cheek to press a kiss behind his ear.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too, asshole. Call me, next time.”

“Hopefully, there won’t be a next time.”

\--

_“This is how the summer ends.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edits and updates... working on that epilogue!


End file.
